
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap, Copyright No. 

Shelf_._.:__i^>^-s? 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




GEORGE M. VICKERS. 



BALLADS 



OF 



THE OCCIDENT 



BY 



George M. Vickers 




PHILADELPHIA, 
The Parkview Publishing CoMpa 

H 




^"lege'^TWO COPIES RECEIVED. 






fy^25 



Copyright, 1898 
By George M. Vickers 



TO HER GRACE 

The Duchess of Marlborough 

in testimony of the friendship 
entertained for England by America, 
which, although not generally appre- 
ciated, lives ready to assert itself in 
the time of need, I most respectfully 
dedicate this volume. 

GEORGE M. VICKERS 



INTRODUCTION. 

jt ^ j» 

^ HE poems contained in this collection do 
\|y not include all that I have written, yet 
I many of the pieces will be recognized by 
more than one aspirant for elocutionary honors, 
and enough lyrics are given to furnish an 
ample variety of themes. If upon the subject 
of patriotism I have been too prolific, my only 
apology is that I am an American. 

The Author. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Lost in the Mountains 13 

The Pilot's Bride 21 

Roderick Lee 27 

Buzzard's Point 35 

The Trysting Well 40 

Tom's Thanksgiving 44 

The Cobbler of Lynn 46 

Dead Man's Gulch 52 

Jaqueline 58 

Music 62 

The Potter's Field 62 

A Sunset Ray 69 

The Felon's Wife 70 

The Four Kisses 7^ 

The Dead Letter 78 

The Coquette 82 

Six O'clock 86 

True Friendship 87 

The Sailor's Story 88 

The Old Spinster 9^ 

The Deacon's Sermon 94 

Dying to Win 95 

A Legend of the Declaration 97 

(7) 



8 Contents, 

PA6B 

The River • 99 

A Grain of Truth 100 

Out of Season loi 

A Ivover's Wish 103 

"Woman 104 

Rizpah 105 

Lines to Lizzie 108 

The Caliph's Dream no 

Woman's Worth 112 

Kindly Acts 112 

The Burning City 113 

Camellia 114 

The Last Salute 115 

The Pilgrim 117 

The Blessings of Sight 118 

Approaching Spring • 119 

The Thief on the Cross 120 

Easter Morn 125 

Nothing to Wear • 126 

Mortality 129 

General U. S. Grant 131 

Faith 132 

The Dying Child 133 

General Robert E. Lee 134 

Minnie 135 

Life's Battle 136 

Glory 137 



Contents, g 



PAGE 



The Moon 138 

The Rusty Sword 140 

Christmas Bells 141 

The New Rosette 142 

Only a Pension Pauper 145 

A Soldier's Ofifering 147 

A Gentleman 148 

The Old Canteen 149 

True Love 150 

Twilight 151 

The Dear Old Sabbath 152 

Go Fan Yourself 153 

The Palmetto and the Pine 154 

Jehovah 155 

The Mother-in-Law 156 

A KisG 156 

The New Year 157 

February 158 

The Cynic 158 

Little Miss Lou 159 

Aunt Polly Green 161 

Fidehty 166 

November 167 

LYRIC POEMS. 

The King's Kiss 171 

Names upon the Sand 173 



10 Contents, 

PAGK 

The Helmsman 174 

The Captain's Story 176 

Words Beyond Recall 177 

The Fisherman's Bride 178 

The Maiden's Wish 180 

By the Old Cathedral 181 

Beautiful Trees of the Wayside 183 

The Proudest Ships 184 

No Mother's Love 185 

Adjust Yourself 186 

The Deserter 187 

Poor Ting Loo 188 

The Maid from Londonderry 190 

Mermaids' Chorus 191 

The Lawyer's Song 192 

Why, Why, O Sea ? 193 

Whate'er My Fate 194 

Only a Word at Parting 195 

The Coast Guard 196 

Cloud Forms 197 

Love's but a Dream . 199 

Fire Phantoms 200 

The Rival Swains 201 

Pretty Holly Berries 202 

God Bless Our Land 203 

The Stars and Stripes Forever 204 

Donald Gray 205 



Contents, ii 

PAGB 

The Old Organ Blower 206 

The Anchor Watch 207 

I'm Getting Too Big to Kiss 208 

Because I Love You 209 

Baby Bye 210 

Columbia, My Country 211 

The American's Farewell 212 

Can Love Forget? 213 

The Old Ship 214 

The Ivy-Clad Ruin 215 

Song of the Chase 216 

Em'ly's Wedding 217 

The Afterglow 21S 

Unmated 219 

Out on the Hills 220 

Guard the Flag 221 

Blacksmith Joe 222 

Watching the Tide Drift By 224 

The Proud Flag of Freedom 225 

Woman's Love 226 

The Nameless Valley 227 

The Harvest Home 227 

Over the River 228 

Easter Carol 229 

Not Here 230 

Christmas 231 

Finger Prints upon the Pane 232 



12 Contents, 

PAGE 

Twilight on the Sea 233 

The Broken Tryst 234 

Only Dreaming 235 

The New Year 236 

Stay Home To-night with the Old Folks 237 

After the Wedding 238 

The Road by the River 239 

The Ribbon She Wore 240 

Pretty Wild Roses 241 

The Turning in the Lane 243 

Only a Tramp 244 

The Toll Taker „ 245 

Daddy Wicket 246 

The Grocer's Song 247 

He's a Man Among a Hundred 249 

A Father's Love 250 

Serenade 251 

The Old Philosopher 252 

A Widow of Forty-two 253 

Memorial Day 254 

Jesus Guard Us Through the Night 255 

The Minstrel 256 



BflLLflDS OF THE OCCIDENT. 



Lost in the Mountains. 

See 3^ou that yellow thread, that, snake-like, 

winds 
High up the mountain side, now hid, now seen, 
Now lost to view amid the shelving crags 
And stunted pines? That is a rugged pass, 
Called, hereabouts, The Devil's Trail. Just 

where 
We stand, I stood one Autumn daj^ and heard 
The legend from an aged mountaineer, 
And, as my mem'ry serves me, word for word, 
Like this the story ran : 

Mark Lysle, a rich. 
Eccentric widower, and Maud, his child. 
Long years agone, lived in that house whose red 
Roof peeps from yonder clump of trees; and 

though 
You see a light, blue plume of smoke above 
The chimney top, yet other hearts now sit 
(13) 



14 Ballads of the Occident. 

About the hearth and watch its glow, for that 
Bright fire which blazed when Lysle held sway, 

died out 
One stormy night, never to burn again. 
For miles and miles, which way you went, the 

fame 
Of Lysle would greet your ear; his courtesies, 
His open house and hospitalities, 
Were themes discussed no less than were his 

quick 
Resentment of a fancied slight, his fierce, 
Hot temper, when aroused, or swiftness to 
Avenge a wrong. But those who knew his child, 
Who saw her pure, white brow, her gold brown 

hair, 
And read the truth within her hazel eyes, 
Deemed her in ev'ry trait of character 
His antipode, his very opposite — 
A lion him, and her a sweet gazelle. 
Together lived they in that red-roofed house, 
He, father, brother, lord and slave by turns : 
She, ever steadfast, mild, obedient. 
So like her-mother — an exotic frail, 
A Northern lily 'neath a Southern sun. 

One Victor Dale, whose acres joined, and 

stretched 
Far west from Lysle's estate; whose negro huts 



Lost in the Mountains. 15 

Gleamed white amid the evergreens; the man 
Her father called his chosen friend, this man, 
Her senior by a score of years, and ill 
Of feature, sought the maiden's hand, nay, 

claimed 
It by a compact with her father made 
Before her mother's death. But Maud, sweet 

Maud, 
Who knew not how to hate, whom duty bound, 
Whose only statute was her father's will. 
Thus far had viewed her marriage in the light 
Of something that she might escape, a thing 
She might avoid, that would not come to pass; 
As those condemned to death will hope when hope 
Is dead, so hung she on the rosy thought. 
And comfort took in hoping that it would 
Not be; and though his would-be gallantries 
Oft filled her with disgust, and oft provoked 
A loathing in her breast, she hated not. 

Once, on a summer day, with book in hand, 
Maud sat beneath a tree. Upon the porch. 
Reclining on a bamboo chair, her father dozed: 
A sudden cry aroused them both in time 
To see a horse, with empty saddle, dash 
Across the road and leap the hedge. While yet 
They stood amazed some field hands moving 
slow, 



1 6 Ballads of the Occident, 

Came up the shaded walk bearing between 
Their swarthy forms the helpless body of 
A man. With almost woman's tenderness 
Mark Lysle made haste to have the wounded 

youth 
Borne to his choicest room, and summoned 

quick 
A surgeon, nor would rest until assured 
His uninvited guest was doing well, 
As well as one with broken limb could do. 
Thus Henri Clair, an artist, far from home, 
Was thrust by fate upon a stranger's care. 

The leaves have lost their summer hue of green ; 
The purple grapes in clusters thick hang low; 
The grain is garnered, and a late bee wings 
Its way across the porch. Young Clair and Maud 
Stand side by side ; the setting sun shines full 
Upon their faces: pale is his and sad, 
And hers all tenderness and sympathy: 
His time to go has come; this night will be 
His last beneath her father's roof. In two 
Short months, by merest chance, their youthful 

hearts 
Have learned to beat as one, yet hopelessly. 
Behind a tree two other forms crouch low ; 
Her father, and her suitor, Victor Dale. 
They glide away unseen. 



Lost in the Mountains. 17 

That night when all 
Were gathered round the hearth, Mark Lysle, 
In tones that fell like death upon the ears 
Of those who heard him speak, announced 
It as his will, that on the coming day 
His daughter Maud should wed his chosen friend ; 
**And, sir," said he to Clair, "as you must deem 
It time to go, I shall not press you to 
Remain, but bid you speed upon your way," 
And then, with haughty bow, strode out. 

"Farewell, 
Until we meet again — " "No, Maud, we must 
Not say good-bye; to leave you now would be 
To part forever, " then young Clair's voice sank 
Into a whisper; then, with one pure kiss 
In haste imprinted on her brow, he left 
The room, and then the house 

The tall, old clock 
That in the hallway stood, was striking nine 
As Maud stole out into the night. Dark clouds 
Were rising in the west. The lightning flashed 
From out the distant sky ; the thunder boomed 
And rattled off in echoes 'mong the hills; 
The black mass rising soon obscured the stars 
O'erhead; then plashing rain-drops told the storm 
Had burst. "To wed the hand and not the heart 
Is sin, far greater than to disobey. 
2 



1 8 Ballads of the Occide^tt, 

May God forgive me if I err: my heart 

Must be my guide." Thus murmured Maud, 

as all 
Alone she sped across the fields to reach 
Yon rugged pass where Clair had gone to wait, 
That when she came they both might mount his 

steed, 
And so avoid pursuit, none dreaming they 
Would choose that fearful path for flight. 

The sun 
Shone bright. The wet grass gleamed as though 

bedecked 
With gems. The storm had gone; the night 

had gone, 
And she had gone, the star of Mark Lysle's home, 
Gone — to return no more. 

The dark night through. 
Young Henri Clair, high on a rocky cliff 
Had watched and listened for his promised bride; 
Had bended to the rock his ear, had called, 
Loud as he dared, ' ' Maud ! I am waiting, Maud !' * 
But never came reply. 

Again, ''Here, Maud!" 
Then sobbed and sighed the wind, all else was 

still. 
At dawn of day, and fearing that she could 



Lost in the Mountains. 19 

Not brave the storm, all wan and pale he rode 
Swift down the steep descent to learn the worst. 
He scarce had reached the narrow valley road 
Ere Lysle and Dale each bade him halt or die. 
Then shouting loud, they called the negroes, 

swore, 
And charged him with the maiden's death or 

worse. 
**She's lost! O God, she's lost! Come, follow 

me!" 
Cried Clair; then, struck with cruel spur, his 

horse 
In terror bore him up the winding path. 
"I come!" shrieked out his rival, Dale; **I 

come!" 
And off he dashed, his livid face drawn grim 
With jealous rage. Then followed I^ysle, and then 
The throng of blacks, like hounds unleashed. 

A cry! 
Again a cry of mortal pain was heard ! 
The throng pressed up, and round a jutting point. 
Till came in view a level breadth of rock 
That shelved and overhung a sheer descent 
Of awful depth. There, like a sculptor's work 
On pedestal of stone, young Henri Clair 
Sat rigid on his steed and pointed down 
The deep abyss. In horror peered they all 



20 Ballads of the Occident. 

Below, where lay the object of his gaze — 
The white, the lifeless form of Maud. 

The spell 
Was broke by one wild laugh from Henri's lips. 
With curb he drew his horse erect; he threw 
His mantel o'er its head, struck deep his spurs, 
And with the shout, "My bride!" leaped dowo 
to death. 

And to this day the story still is told 

Of travelers, who, belated on the pass, 

Have heard, when softly sobbed the wind, a voice 

Call tenderly and low, ''I'm waiting, Maud! — 

Here, Maud!— Is that you, Maud?" 



% 



The Pilot's Bride. 

"Deep locked in the ocean the secret lies 
Of many a ship that ne'er will rise, 
Yet 'tis easier far the world's wrecks to find 
Than to guess one thought in a woman's mind.'* 
Thus spoke Clyde Howe as he paced the deck 
Of the pilot schooner Nancy. "Neck 
And neck I've been racing for Molly's love, 
With the owner's son on the cliflF above; 
Sometimes she gives him a glance, a smile, 
Then I get the same — if I wait a while; 
The fact is I'm tired, and want to know 
Which one of us two's to be Molly's beau.'* 

Up on a headland bold and high, 

Clean cut and backed by the deep blue sky, 

Rested the mansion of Humphrey Lee, 

Massive and grim as a fort could be; 

And many's the skipper who sailing by 

Has looked through his glass and wondered why 

No flag, no sentry, nor gun was seen, 

But only its magazine round and green, 

Which, though to the sailors bomb-proof 

appeared, 
Proved only a moss-topped spring when neared. 
Thus many from habit, and some in sport. 
Oft spoke of the place as Humphrey's Fort. 

(21) 



22 Ballads of the Occident. 

On the gray stone flags of his portico 
Old Humphrey Lee walked to and fro; 
At times he would pause and look off to sea 
Then turn and gaze at a shrub or tree, 
Or cross to the wall at the headland brink, 
Lean over the chasm and seem to think. 
Far down the red rocks of the sheer abyss, 
Where ever the wild waves seethe and hiss. 
Old Humphrey long peered; then turned away, 
When right in his path stood, laughing gay. 
His son, young Vivian, tall and fair; 
Handsome of form, and of haughty air. 

The young man laughed till his cheeks were 

red. 
He held his sides and then gasping said: 
*'Why, father, I've just been watching the race 
'Twixt the frowns and smiles on your changing 

face; 
And, asking your pardon, I'm forced to say 
That by odds the dark frowns have won the day !' ' 
*'Aye, frowns, and too many, and smiles too few, 
Where all might be smiles, were it not for you.'* 
Then old Humphrey continued, more sad than 

stern, 
"Vivian, my son, try some good to learn; 
Be manly, and tell me both frank and true. 
What is Molly, the fisherman's child, to you?" 



The Pilofs Bride. 23 

"Well, really, I've thought not the matter o'er, 
Since Molly's but one of a score or more 
Of the people I speak to or friendly greet 
When we pass in the roads or village street.*' 
Then old Humphrey took Vivian's proffered 

arm, 
And remarked that his question implied no harm, 
**But, ' ' said he, * 'this morning I came to know 
That the young woman's coming quite soon to 

sew; 
She will stay for a week to help make and mend, 
Though Aunt Leah will treat her as guest and 

friend." 
"I see," laughed his son. And the sunset bright 
Flooded Humphrey's grim fort in a golden light. 

'Tis night, and the yellow May moon looks down 
On the restless sea and the little town ; 
It shows on its face, in silhouette. 
Two forms by the headland wall ; and yet 
An observer might easily reckon three. 
Though the bended form's but a withered tree. 
'Tis a lovely scene, and the ocean's roar 
Blends sweet with the tale that's told once more. 
** Molly," plead Vivian, '*you soon must go; 
I love you, then answer me yes — or no." 
**I cannot. I love not," said Molly, "but when 
The harvest moon shines, I will tell you then. " 



24 Ballads of the Occident, 

The trim schooner Nancy at anchor lay, 

Her white sails furled and her crew away, 

Away with mothers, with sisters and wives, 

For pilots and sailors lead risky lives; 

And though long or short, when the cruise is 

o'er, 
Jack drops his anchor and skips ashore. 
To the dim lit porch of a fisher's home 
Slowly two earnest talkers come; 
They sit on the worn bench side by side 
Where the woodbines partly their faces hide. 
**Clyde," 'tis Molly's low voice, "I will answer 

soon; 
I will tell you one night by the harvest moon.'* 

In the little port 'tis a holiday. 

For the old to rest and the young to play. 

The sun has gone down in a bank of red, 

And a star or two peeps overhead ; 

Yet still at old Humphrey's Fort are seen 

The villagers dancing upon the green. 

On a strip of beach, mid the jutting rocks 

Whose slippery sides stay the waves' fierce 

shocks, 
A group of maidens are seeking shells, 
By the rest unseen till their shrieks and yells 
From the depths of the roaring gulf below 
Bespeak their presence and fearful woe. 



The PiloCs Bride. 25 

One moment's confusion, one answering cry, 
Then all to the wall in their anguish fly ; 
First over its crest young Vivian springs, 
Then follows Clyde Howe, as a loud cheer rings 
From the men behind, who are slipping fast 
Down the long rope ladder; and ere the last 
Has touched the slant beach of crumbling shale 
Horror strikes them all, and each cheek turns 

pale. 
See ! Clyde Howe in the angry billows leaps, 
Is struggling hard with the tide that sweeps, 
Sweeps Molly far out on a mountain wave, — 
Sweeps both to their death, and a cold, deep 

grave ! 

"This purse of gold, and ten purses more, 
To whoever brings safe that girl ashore!" 
Young Vivian's voice has grown shrill with 

fear. 
But no one remains his words to hear. 
Save the women above, for the men have sped 
For a lifeboat housed in the coast-guard shed. 
Onward, yet onward, brave Clyde swims out, 
Now lost in the trough, now tossed about; 
And weaker, yet weaker the drifting maid 
Still struggles, scarce seen in the twilight shade — 
Now Clyde — now both in the gathering gloom 
Drift swift from sight to their awful doom ! 



26 Ballads of the Occident. 

Hark ! out from the shadows there comes a cry, 
*Tis a shout of joy and of victory ! 
Old men and women gaze eager down 
Where Vivian waits with an anxious frown 
Huzza! 'tis the lifeboat, one stroke more, 
And she rides the huge breakers safe to shore. 
*'Take this purse, brave Clyde," young Vivian 

said; 
But the hero proudly shook his head. 
And trembling they stood, nigh about to swoon. 
When up from the sea came the harvest moon. 
* 'Sweet Molly, will you be my prize" said 

Clyde; 
And she answered, "Yes, I'm the pilot's bride. " 




Roderick Lee. 

This is a wild, lone valley, and the road that 
threads it through 

Is the loneliest road I know of, and I've traveled 
not a few ; 

Those hills on the left so barren, and yon tower- 
ing, rocky ridge. 

Look down on a sluggish river that is spanned 
by a moss-grown bridge — 

And nigh to the bridge like a sentry, a tall, gray 
chimney stands, 

*Mid the wreck that time has buried 'neath the 
tangled weeds and sands. 

In this valley three ruins moulder that were once 

three happy homes, 
And where once fond voices mingled, now the sly 

fox fearless roams; 
Then these locks were thick and glossy, that are 

now so sparse and gray ; 
Then I'd calmber these rocks as willing by night 

as I would by day — 
But, if a royal sceptre, if the world were promised 

mine 
To cross again this valley, I would shudder and 

decline. 

(27) 



28 Ballads of the Occident. 

Roderick Lee was a miller, and as grist was hard 
to find 

Down in his old New Hampshire, he had little 
or naught to grind; 

So, with his young wife blooming and his brown- 
eyed daughter Nell, 

Together with two young farmers, he came to 
this place to dwell: 

And many's the mile of prairie, and many's the 
forest drear. 

That lay 'twixt the far-off Merrimack and the 
stream that ripples here. 

Yet with a heart as buoyant and as brave as it 

was true, 
Young Lee, 'mid the cheers at parting, bade his 

native town adieu; 
Then came the weeks of toiling, aye, months, 

ere the scorching plain 
Was crossed, and his eyes were greeted by the 

distant mountain chain; 
But the white-topped, dusty wagons at last made 

their final stand. 
And he knelt to breathe thanksgiving with his 

little pilgrim band. 

Stay ! even now in fancy, I can see their forms 

once more, 
I can see their peaceful faces and the look of hope 

they wore — 



Roderick Lee, 29 

Poor Kate and Nell and Edith, young Harry, 

Mag and Joe — 
'Neath that oak I see them kneeling, tho' 'tis 

thirty years ago ! 
And long ere the hazy autumn had mellowed 

another year, 
Our huts were built in the clearing, and our corn 

hung ripe in the ear. 

Joe was a model husband, as fair Edith, his wife, 
well knew, 

And Mag and her raw-boned Harry, lived as 
loving couples do; 

But, as their homes were childless, very natural- 
like it fell 

That these kind and worthy people thought the 
world of little Nell. 

Many a time they kept her whole days 'gainst 
her mother's will, 

First in the hut by the river, then in the hut by 
the hill. 

Once in the chill November, when the slender 

moon hung low. 
And the barren hill-tops yonder were clad in a 

gauze of snow ; 
Kate with a gleam of mischief in her bright and 

twinkling eye, 
Started across the river to the hut of Joe, hard by ; 



30 Ballads of the Occident. 

And Roderick sat by the window, watching her 

out of sight, 
Dreamingly watching the shadows of that chill 

November night. 

Ere it had seemed a moment she again stood by 

his chair; 
She had called at their neighbor's cabin, but 

Nellie had not been there. 
Roderick slowly rising took his rifle from the 

rack, 
For the road was wild and lonely and led through 

a forest tract ; 
Over the ruts and boulders, chatting, they strode 

along 
Till the voice of raw-boned Harry was heard in 

a merry song. 

"Singing for Nell's amusement," said the wife, 
as she hurried on ; 

**Pity," she added, musing, "that they have no 
child of their own. " 

Soon with a hearty greeting they were met at 
the cabin door, 

"And where is your little daughter?" asked 
Mag, as she scanned them o'er. 

"Question your good man, Harry, for I'll ven- 
ture that he can tell," 

Said Kate, then smiling added, "we must stop 
lending little Nell." 



Roderick Lee, 31 

Mag, with a playful gesture drew the bedroom 

screen aside, 
*'See!" she exclaimed, "she's not here; now I 

hope you are satisfied." 
"Come, Maggie, come, don't trifle, for the hour 

is growing late ; 
I know that the child is hiding; would you have 

us longer wait?" 
Thus queried Kate, half pleading, when a look 

akin to fear 
Stole over the face of Harry as he said, "She is 

not here!" 

*' Not here! O God protect her!" with a gasp 

young Roderick cried, 
And his pale wife like a statue, mute with fright, 

stood at his side. 
'Twas but a single moment, yet it seemed like an 

age to wait 
Ere Mag and Kate with their husbands filed out 

through the open gate; 
Dark was the night as a dungeon, for the moon 

had sunk away. 
And the far-off cries of a panther filled each 

breast with dread dismay. 

On through the gloomy forest like a band of 

ghosts they sped, 
Silently, save when the mother sobbed, or a twig 

snapped 'neath their tread; 



32 Ballads of the Occident, 

"Hark!" whispered tall, gaunt Harry, and they 

stood with heads bent low, 
While faint on the air of midnight came shrieks 

of pain and woe. 
*' Hello! hello!" cried Harry; but they heard no 

voice reply — 
"Heavens! what means that crimson, that glow 

on the fleecy sky? 

"See how it spreads and deepens! Look! our 
cabins are ablaze!" 

Then Roderick paused in terror at the sight that 
met his gaze. 

Light grew the wood about them ; their shadows 
fell before, 

For behind them on the hillside leaped the flames 
from Harry's door: 

"On for your lives!" screamed Harry, "on for 
little Nell!" 

Then, like an answering challenge, rose the dis- 
tant Indians' yell. 

Bang! bang! ''That's Joe replying; he'll fight 
'em game and well, ' ' 

Were the words that Harry uttered ; * * God spare 
my darling Nell!" 

This from the pallid mother; and the settlers 
fairly flew 

O'er the matted brush and boulders till the clear- 
ing came in view. 



Roderick Lee, 33 

Oh, such a sight of ruin! oh, such a ghastly 

scene ! 
Stark, dead, lay Joe and Kdith on the charred 

and trampled green. 

Crouching down 'mid the bushes they watched 

the painted fiends. 
Watched with the strange, grim calmness that 

despair so often lends ; 
*'My child! my child!" then springing from 

the group like a startled deer, 
Kate rushed o'er the red- lit clearing ere one 

could interfere — 
The hideous, screeching cut-throats had captured 

little Nell; 
But, when they saw her mother, they stood 

bound, as by a spell. 

* 'Spare! oh, spare my darling! Here, pierce 
me, strike me dead ! 

Give back my child, my Nellie!" the frantic 
woman said; 

Then on her panting bosom her daughter's head 
she laid, 

Then both sank down in silence, looked up and 
mutely prayed ; [hell 

That was the fatal signal, for on, like a sweeping 

They came with knife and hatchet, with rifle- 
shot and yell. 

3 



34 Ballads of the Occident, 

Bravely they fought, yet vainly, that fated settler 

band, 
Clubbing their empty rifles, meeting them hand 

to hand ; 
Roderick reeled and staggered, then fell 'neath a 

crushing blow, 
And a whoop of fiendish malice told the triumph 

of the foe ; 
Then like a flash they vanished, and Roderick 

bleeding lay. 
Hearing their yells grow fainter, till at last they 

died away. 

Gray dawned the wintry morning on that awful 

scene of death. 
And five cold brows of marble were kissed by its 

chilling breath — 
God in His wisdom took them — save Nellie, who 

ne'er was found; 
And all of them sleep in this valley, each 'neath 

a grassy mound. 
Poor little Nell may be living, but if living she's 

dead to me; 
Yes, the tale is indeed a true one — and my name? 

— is Roderick I^ee. 



Buzzard's Point. 

Huge, fleecy clouds, like stately ships, drift by, 

And in their wake come more to join the fleet 

Now seeming anchored in the southern sky ; 

A hundred glassy pools reflect the sun, 

For, save yon brook-like thread, the river bed 

Is dry, and only sand and shale mark out 

Where deep Ohio thunders to the sea. 

Upon the rocky summit of a bluff 

That juts far out from shore, two lovers sit 

Beneath the shade of mingling beech and elm. 

The man is young; the maid, almost a child; 

Yet in the eyes of both is seen the fire 

Of holy love, true love, that only dies 

With life— 

Blue eyes and brown ; hers blue, his brown. 
And oh, how gloriously free their hair 
Coquettes, streams oft', now flutters back to kiss 
Again ; his chestnut dark to twine in sport 
Amid her living gold. Blow on, fair breeze; 
Sing sweet, chirp low, ye merry birds, for here 
Two hearts make solitude of all the world 
That lies beyond their rosy world of love. 
A tree trunk forms the seat whereon they sit, 
(35) 



36 Ballads of the Occident. 

And vines and shrubs a perfect bower make 
The place, so wild and yet so beautiful : 
Below them, full a mile, a log hut stands; 
The forest trees, like giant infantry 
Updrawn have formed a three-flanked hollow 

square 
About the strip of clearing ; further on 
The river sweeps around a graceful bend 
And hides its course amid the dense green leaves. 
The lovers rise. He places on her head 
The rough straw hat that so becomes her fair 
Sweet face, and then takes up his own broad felt 
From off the ground. They stand and look afar 
Among the drifting clouds. The birds chirp low ; 
Their plumage gay gleams bright, as flashing 

through 
A patch of sunlight, swift they dart in glee. 
How tame, how fearless in their native home. 
See there, among the vines that twine that tree, 
There, where his rifle rests ! What kind of bird 
Is that ? Its plumes are gray ; how slow it moves ! 
It glides away. Perhaps it may come back. 
Strange bird. There, where his rifle rests — but 

see! 
His rifle is not there, 'tis gone! 

Whiz! Click! 
And, as the tomahawk still trembles in 
The tree, the startled lovers each spring back, 



Buzzard'* s Point, 37 

Then turn to see the scowling copper fiend 
That clasps Ben Bowling's rifle in his hand. 
No shriek escapes her firm-pressed lips, as calm, 
Though deathly pale, the girl steps back a pace ; 
No sign of fear betrays her frozen heart : 
She sees her lover slowly draw his knife. 
Beholds the crouching savage raise the piece 
To take delib'rate aim. A dash, a flash 
Of fluttering white, and she has leaped and grasped 
The rifle in her small brown hands. 

With yell 
Of rage the red man springs aside to shun 
The lover's keen-edged blade, then whipping 

out 
His own long knife, with horrid grin prepares 
To meet his foe. The cunning dog keeps well 
The lover in a line between himself 
And that bright barrel resting on a branch; 
For Mabel Earle is no mean shot, and with 
Her finger on the trigger mutely bids 
The painted wretch beware ! A moment's pause, 
And now the work begins. Thrust, guard, 

lunge, cut, 
Now parry, clink! the sparks fly as their cold 
Blades clash. The Indian advances quick, 
A sudden stroke. "Lost! O my God, he's killed!'* 
Ben Bowling reels, the red stream trickles down 
His face. "Kneel! Kneel! for life, stoop low!'* 



38 Ballads of the Occident. 

The girl 
Is ashen white. Clink! clink! more spaiks. 

"O Ben, 
My own, he's growing faint, he staggers — Oh!" 
The savage strikes again. The lover falls. 
A shot — ** There, murderer!" The blue smoke 

veils 
Her wet blue eyes — the red chief drops his knife, 
He rallies, clutches at the air, spins round 
And round, now nears the brink, is nearer still, 
Still nearer, gone ! 

"Oh, speak to me," she cries, 
As bending o'er her lover's form she wipes 
The blood stains from his pallid face. "Oh, 

speak 
To me, but tell me that you live! Ah, see! 
He moves his lips ! Thank Heaven he li ves ! His 

eyes 
Unclose, he faintly smiles! Ha, hark!" "Ye 

ho! 
Ye ho!" "Saved, saved!" and placing both her 

brown 
Hands to her lips she answers back the cry, 
"Ye ho! ye ho!" and swoons away. 

They come, 
Her father and a trapper friend. The thing 
That first they see looks like a wounded bird, 
A buzzard, hanging on a twig above 



Buzzard^ s Point, 39 

Them high; another glance and well they know 
'Tis but the head-gear of an Indian, 
Caught off as down he fell. 

And thenceforth on, 
Long after Ben and Mabel happy lived 
And died, the place was known as Buzzard's 
Point. 




The Trysting Well. 
I. 

**Why, Nellie, how's this?" said Farmer Brown, 

Driving his team from the market town. 

But never a word from her red lips fell, 

As smiling she stood at the trysting well. 

*' Women is odd," the old farmer said, 

And he cracked his whip and shook his head. 

The farmer no sooner had left the place 

Than a change came over the maiden's face; 

The smile had gone like a rippling wave, 

And the look on her face was sad and grave. 

Then, shading her eyes with her small, white 

hand, 
The dusty road and the fields she scanned ; 
She saw the late birds as they nestward flew. 
And glanced at the shadows that longer grew ; 
She heard the faint strokes of the village bell, 
Yet lonely she watched at the trysting well. 

II. 

Now old Farmer Brown loved to drink and smoke, 
But the pride of his heart was to play a joke, 
And scarce from the well had he passed away 
When he met a young horseman hard riding and 
gay: 

(40) 



The Trystiug IVelL 41 



t* 



Ah, lad," cried the farmer, "you're late, you're 

late. 
Your lass I saw pass through the meadow gate !' * 
"True, Farmer Brown, I have been delayed 
By a shoe cast off from this sorrel jade; 
Though just what you mean by that last remark 
Concerning a lass, why, I'm quite in the dark." 
The young man colored and grasped his rein, 
But to Farmer Brown his deceit was plain. 
Aye, far beyond doubt, when he saw him strike 
His mare till she flew down the dusty pike. 
And the farmer winked as he saw him pass, 
lyike the wind, o'er the dewy meadow grass; 
Yes, the sly old dog watched the horseman 

fleet 
Till his form was lost in the village street. 
Then loud on the air his wild laughter broke 
At the big success of his clever joke. 

III. 

By the merest chance, on that eve it fell, 
That a man strode up to the trysting well ; 
He had stopped at the moss-grown, limpid pool 
To slake his thirst with its waters cool. 
"Gerald!" He started, and made reply, 
As a shadowy phantom caught his eye. 
*'Not Gerald, Miss Nellie," he quickly said, 
'*But I hope, for this once, I'll do instead. " 



42 Ballads of the Occident, 

Like a surging sea of crimson flame 

The hot blood swift to her temples came. 

Her lover's rival before her stood, 

And she alone, in the dark'ning wood. 

Below them the village lamp lights lay. 

Cheering the gloom of the fading day. 

"As I, too, am going the self-same way, 

Allow me to be your escort, pray. ' ' 

His voice was sincere, and implied respect. 

And he drew his sinewy form erect. 

Though her thoughts and fears were but half 

concealed. 
There was nothing left but to bow and yield. 

IV. 

When the rider dashed off from old Farmer 

Brown 
And rode through the streets of the little town; 
When he hitched his mare to the garden tree 
And looked for the face that he did not see; 
When he heard that his Nellie was still away, 
Then jealousy, love and wild dismay 
For a moment held him a captive chained, 
But the next, and his reason was full regained. 
The round harvest moon o'er the hilltop lay 
As on foot through the village he took his way. 
He had gone not far when he met a sight. 
That made him doubt that he saw aright. 



The Trysting Well, 43 

No pistols were drawn, no duel was fought, 
But a lesson was learned and a trick was taught ; 
And the three stood there in the moonlit town 
Planning a penance for Farmer Brown. 

V. 

And it happened the very next market day 
As he drove along on his homeward way. 
Half the village turned out the old fellow to see 
Tied wrong side up, to a hickory tree: 
And they laughed and they shouted to hear him 

yell, 
As he dangled right over the trysting well. 

VI. 

Farmer Brown still enjoys his sociable smokes, 
But should you ever meet him — don't mention 
jokes. 




Tom's Thanksgiving. 

The smoke rose straight from the chimney- 
Till lost in the autumn air, 

And the trees round the little cottage 
Stood motionless and bare ; 

But within there was life and bustle, 
There was warmth in the kitchen stove^ 

And the smile of a patient woman. 
And the glow of a deathless love. 

The cakes and pies on the dresser 

Stood ranged in a tempting row, 
And the table-cloth on a chair-back 

Was smooth and as white as snow; 
On the table, 'mid bags and baskets, 

A big, fat turkej^ lay, 
For Tom, our Tom, was coming 

To spend Thanksgiving Day. 

Yes, Tom had sent us a letter, 

The first that had come for years. 
And we read it all over and over 

Till its lines were dimmed with tears: 
The boy who had nigh disgraced us. 

Whose mem'ry was dead to some, 
The wayward, the lost, was coming; 

Thank God, he was coming home. 
(44) 



Tom's Thanksgiving. 45 

To-day, as 1 think it over, 

The old scene comes back again, 
And I see their anxious faces 

As plain as I saw them then ; 
I can see poor grief-bowed father 

Standing by mother's side, 
Both peering out through the window, 

Trying their fears to hide. 

I can see a manly horseman 

Dismount at the cottage door, 
And remember the kindly message 

That from absent Tom he bore ; 
I remember how mother detected 

The cheat, and then swooned away ; 
And forever I'll still remember 

That sweet Thanksgiving Day. 



^1/ 



The Cobbler of Lynn. 

The lights burn dim. A sea fog drifts in dank 
And chill; the tavern doors are closed; and, save 
The blinking, drowsy watchman on his rounds. 
The town of Lynn lies fast asleep. 

IvOud, deep, 
Barks out a near-by mastiff. Shrill and faint 
He's answered far away; now echoes come 
From curs all o'er the town; the din grows less; 
Now all is still. The lights are blurred and dim; 
The sea fog still drifts in, and still the town 
Of Lynn lies fast asleep. 

One, two, clangs from 
The belfry overhead with lazy stroke 
And creak. The clapper jangling with the bell's 
Vibration seems the hour's dying gasp. 
The watchman yawns and trudges down the 

street ; 
And still the town lies fast asleep. 

An old 
And toppling house, whose low, slant roof upholds 
A field of moss, squats on a thoroughfare. 
A rusty sign swings from the door, on which, 
By day, is seen a yellow boot; beneath, 
Upon the low stone step, wrapped in a shawl, 
(46) 



The Cobbler of Lynn. 47 

An infant slumbers sweet; within the house 
An honest cobbler snores ; and on yon dark 
And sobbing tide a dead young mother floats, 
The cold waves kissing oft the marble brow 
That human lips refused to press. 

The years 
That lie between that night and this bright morn 
Are full a score. The sweetest face in Lynn 
Is Marion's; the grandest eyes are hers; 
A queenly form and grace : and yet she dwells 
Not in a mansion, neither has she maids. 
The cobbler more than once with joy and pride 
Has thanked Saint Crispin for his generous gift 
Of twenty years ago. — And who would not? 
Beside his bench she stands this summer morn 
And gayly chats; repeats the latest talk, 
And fondly smooths his silver locks, while he, 
With dark and horny hand takes up his awl 
And plies his waxen thread. 

Though every day 
Was once to-day, and every day will be 
To-day, yet only this is our to-day; its peace, 
Its opportunities, its dearest hopes 
May with it go, to come no more. 

The blush 
Has faded from New England's sky, and old 
Nahant lies dark against the afterglow. 



48 Ballads of the Occident. 

The cobbler's bench is vacant; on the wall 
His apron hangs; for he has gone to meet 
A stranger from Manhattan, at the inn. 
But Marion is home. Step soft this way. 
A spacious room with floor of well-worn oak ; 
An open door and window looking south; 
A wide tile hearth; a simmering pot of tea; 
A table snowy white, all set for three. 
Within this room, that serves for banquet hall, 
For parlor, kitchen, each in this and this 
For each, with anxious face sits Marion. 

'Tis late. The meal is still untouched, and tears 
Are slowly trickling down the maiden's face. 
Before the hearth, their shadows thrown across 
The room, stand two determined men, — the old 
And faithful cobbler, and a stranger tall. 
Of proud, commanding mien. "Well, then," 

said he, 
* * If this young lady deems your ancient shop 
And stinted means of greater value than 
Her father's vast estate and revenue. 
My duty is fulfilled." The cobbler speaks 
No word, but looks upon the floor. **0r if 
She feels indebted for your generous care 
And loathes to leave you all alone, her purse 
Can recompense you well, quite well, and place 
You far above the need of toil. I wait 



The Cobbler of Lynn. 49 

Your answer. " Keen the stranger's dark eyes 

search 
The cobbler's troubled face. '*Ask Marion;" 
The old man's voice is tremulous and low; 
*'Her welfare is the only recompense 
I ask." Now in a firmer tone, "But this 
I say, she shall not go, nor stay, against 
Her will." The stranger starts. ''How say 

you, miss?" 
The maiden rises to her feet ; her face 
Is pale, her hazel eyes are wet. **0 sir," 
Her voice is sweet and clear, "there are some 

debts 
Which money cannot pay ; and such a debt 
I owe that aged man. You say you know 
I am the one you seek, can prove it by 
This locket and the name it bears; I grant 
You that. Your story of my mother's life, 
Her illness, her insanity, her flight 
And unknown fate, until you learned it here; 
My father's grief, his search of years, his last 
Request, his death, may all be true; and though 
Within my heart a something whispers that 
It is but partly true, I also grant 
You that; and once again refuse to leave 
One who has more than father been to me ; 
And could my spirit mother speak, I know 
She'd bless her child for being true. While life 
4 



50 Ballads of the Occident, 

Is mine, dear guardian, these hands are yours.'* 
The cobbler clasps her in his arms. "God bless 
You, Marion," he sobs. The stranger bows; 
His dark eyes gleam, and with the single word, 
"Enough!" he passes from their sight. 

The fierce, 
Wild tempest passing o'er may rend the waves 
To foamy shreds, but having past, leave not 
A trace upon the tranquil sea ; so clouds 
Of grim adversity are followed oft 
By sunny days of prosperous bliss. Once more 
Within the cobbler's home the calm 
Routine of peaceful life holds sway. The old 
Affection, though, seems stronger grown ; for she. 
Sweet Marion, still closer clings to him, 
Her aged guardian, and in the shop 
Oft sits and sews, or talks the time away 
Till candle-light. 

But with the autumn comes 
A change. The maid has lost her sprightly air; 
She mopes about, or stands and gazes far 
Beyond her vision's range; again, she starts 
And calls to forms unseen ; she seldom smiles. 
The cobbler sometimes leaves his bench with 

stealth 
And watches her, as silently she plucks 
The dead sprays from her marigolds, or wreathes 



The Cobbler of Lynn. 51 

A garland bright of dahlias, in their strip 

Of garden. Now, in weird soliloquy 

He hears her speak: "O mother, were yoM mad? 

Am I insane? What! money buy my love? 

I cannot help but think the stranger was 

My own — No, no! — Ah, Guardy ! there you are! 

I see you peeping there !" And so the days 

Now come and go within their home. 

'Tis morn. 
The town of Lynn is all astir. The pale 
And horror-stricken people stand in groups. 
The history of twenty years ago 
Repeats itself. The dripping form, still fair 
In death, of Marion is borne along 
The street. Found drowned; and that is all they 
know. 

The cobbler could not live in gloom; his bright, 
Warm sunshine gone, he drooped away and died. 

Sigh not, weep not for Marion. What you 
Have heard was acted years and years ago, 
And all the actors long have slept. Weep not 
For Marion, but rather give your tears 
And charity to those who live and lack 
A mother's love; the erring desolate, 
Who perish for a kindly word. 



Dead Man's Gulch. 

It happened 'way back in the fifties 

When the country was crazy on gold, 
When the gulches and hills near 'Frisco 

Were yielding their wealth untold; 
It happened when men and women, 

Of every manner and kind, 
Came seeking the yellow nuggets 

That the thrifty diggers mined. 

The camp was of rambling shanties, 

With a single narrow street, 
And a tall tree shaded the tavern 

And the crowd from the noon-day heat; 
In a circle the miners were seated, 

A jury of fifty or more. 
And the prisoner sat in a wagon 

In front of the bar-room door. 

She was one of those wretched creatures 

Whose lives are made up of sin, 
Whose crimes are all seen on the surface, 

But none of the good within. 
Tom Scott was the judge and spokesman, 

And he briefly lined out his case 
That the woman was guilty of murder. 

Cowardly, cruel and base : 
(52) 



Dead Mail's Gulch, 

A man had been found in a thicket 

With a bullet-hole through his head; 
Still the blood from the wound was flowing 

But the spark of his life had fled : 
While the party that found him wondered 

Who fired the fatal shot, 
This woman was silently vStealing 

Away from the dreadful spot. 



No doubt she'd have robbed the body, 

But, hearing them, took alarm ; 
In her hand she still held this pistol. 

It was empty, the barrel was warm. 
When the witnesses asked why she did it, 

She uttered a piercing shriek, 
But in spite of their threats and questions 

Not a word would the woman speak. 



An old man, pale and grizzled. 

Then pushed to the open place 
In the circle of angry miners. 

And glanced at each threatening face. 
"I,et me speak, for I am a witness, 

And my strength is failing fast. 
Let me speak for the sake of justice 

Ere the power to speak is past. 



53 



54 Ballads of the Occident, 

"Stop! Let us look behind us, 

Through the mist of time and tears, 
Till we view the golden sunlight 

That in by-gone days appears: 
Far away in the past, a maiden, 

The pride of her happy home. 
Sings only of love's devotion, 

Dreams only of joys to come. 



''Her heart has been won by a stranger, 

Who calls her his love, his life. 
And vows that he wooes with honor, 

That he'll make her his darling wife; 
But the old folks' hearts are heavy. 

For they see that he seems not true ; 
In spite of his words .soft spoken, 

They fear that their child will rue. 



"One morning they found a letter. 

On the open Bible it lay; 
It asked for their kind forgiveness 

And told that she'd gone away. 
The mother was broken-hearted. 

And the grief of them both was wild; 
But the father kneeled down by the Bible, 

And swore that he'd find his child. 



Dead Mmi's Gulch, 55 

*' 'Twas the old, oft- told sad story 

Of a woman's unbounded love, 
A tale of cruel deception. 

Of a fiend that no tears could move. 
At last she was left to wander 

Thousands of miles away 
From her childhood home and loved ones, 

With no place her poor head to lay. 



* ' But her father for years had sought her, 

Wondering where she could be 
Till he suddenly came upon her 

'Mid those rocks that you all can see: 
In the road through the thicket below them, 

He found her in deadly strife, 
Trying to flee from the villain 

Who promised to make her his wife. 



**The father in terror shouted, 

Then the fiend, in his rage and fear, 
Leveled his pistol and fired. 

And the bullet — it struck me here. ' * 
Then the old man bared his bosom 

And a ghastly wound revealed; 
His voice was becoming weaker, 

Like a drunken man he reeled. 



56 Ballads of the Occident, 

Two miners then sprang beside him 

And seated him on the ground, 
Then the jury and those about them 

Leaned forward to catch each sound. 
**/am that poor girl's father," 

The old man whispered in pain, 
"And to save her I shot that monster, 

Or my child he would quick have slain. 



"When he fell she grasped his pistol, 

And speeded for help away ; 
'Twas then that these miners saw her, 

Where the dead man's body lay. 
I was there, but too weak to utter 

A word or a feeble cry. 
But their hands could with ease hav^e touched me 

As they silently passed me by. ' ' 



Tom Scott then addressed the jury, 

He told them the case was clear. 
And he turned to the weeping woman 

To conceal an uprising tear; 
In his face there was just enough shadow 

To soften his bright blue eye, 
In his voice there was just enough sadness 

To hint at a pain gone by. 



Dead Mans Gulch. 

"Is she guilty?" he asked the jury, 
In tones that were soft and low, 

But the answer came swift as lightning 
In a thundering, mighty "No!" 



57 



The village is gone, and the actors — 
God knows if one living there be ; 

And in Dead Man's Gulch so gloomy. 
But one lonely grave you'll see. 




Jaqueline. 

Little Jaqueline sat 'neath an old oaken tree, 
In a cool, shady dell, near the brink of a spring, 

And her pitcher lay empty beside her. 
And her dark chestnut ringlets fell reckless and 

free 
O'er her plump, dimpled shoulders, there seeming 
to cling 
As though jealous some ill might betide her; 

While from under her hat beamed the loveliest 

eyes. 
Of the tenderest, rarest and deepest of blue 

That kind Heaven e'er lavished on maiden. 
Oh, what beauty revealed, — what a wealth to 

surmise, — 
Thus encircled with wild flowers varied in hue, 
And the air with their scent richly laden. 

It was witching to gaze on those round, faultless 

arms, [her knee; 

And the small, snowy hands that were clasped on 

She appeared such a fairy-like wee thing, 
Yet no phantom was she, for her womanly charms 
And her breast's undulations would make the 
doubt flee, 
And be proof that the creature was breathing. 
(58) 



Jaqiieline. 59 

In that lonely retreat, 'neath the old oaken tree, 
Pretty Jaqueline lingered, still longing to stay, 

Though denying the reason she tarried. 
She could do as she pleased, on that day she was 

free; 
Yet she sighed as the moments stole swiftly 
away, 
For she knew on the next she'd be married. 

Oh, the morning was bright, and the wedding 

was grand ! 
But the bride was too dull, and her face was so 

white; 
And then, why did her youthful voice falter? 
For the groom's handsome features shone happy 

and bland. 
Surely hearts of true lovers should swell with 

delight 
When they kneel before God's holy altar. 

And the gossips, who seek only what we would 

hide, 
Slyly hinted that naught but her hand had been 
won 
By the stranger's brief wooing and glitter. 
For they thought of another than he at her side; 
Of a love that in duty she ever must shun, 
Of a life that each vow would embitter. 



6o Ballads of the Occident. 

In a calm, far away, on the Indian sea, 

On the deck of a barque, sat a group of Jack tars 

Tdly watching a seaman tattooing: 
'Twasthearmof a landsman that lay on the knee 
Of the indigo artist, and soon the blue scars 

Plainly told what the fellow was doing. 

Only ''Jaqueline " — hurriedly hid by his sleeve, 
And the lubber strode off and gazed over the 
rail 
At the spars mirrored back by the ocean. 
Such a warm heart and true, how could maiden 

deceive ! 
And he sighed as he stood there, dejected and 
pale, 
All alone with his hopeless devotion. 

Twenty years have gone by. See that hollow- 
cheeked dame 

Seated there, like a ghost, 'neatb the globed 
chandelier 
With a fair, blooming damsel beside her! 

That is Jaqueline; changed, quite, in all but the 
name. 

She is rich, tho' her brilliant gems, flashing, 
appear 
By their splendor alone to deride her. 



Jaqueline. 6i 

Poor mistaken; how sinful her secret regret! 
And how vainly she tries to be loyal in thought 

To the man she has promised to cherish ! 
How she broods o'er one face that she ne'er can 

forget ; 
How in honor repelled and then eagerly sought 

The fond yearning that never can perish. 

Then her child, the loved fetter that binds her to 

life, 
How she dreads lest it meet with a fate like her 

own, 
And be bound , yet forever be parted ! 
There she sits, smiling down her soul's anguish 

and strife, 
Seeking roses where briers and weeds have been 

sown; 
The proud mistress of wealth, — broken 

hearted. 

If ye marry too soon, if ye marry too late, 
Then beware of the curse, for the husband or 
wife 
May in time crave the Jove that was slighted. 
Oh, the joy of the soul is in greeting its mate. 
And the fullness of happiness dwells with that 
life 
Where the heart with the hand is united. 



Music. 

O music, gift beyond compare, 
How oft thy beauties blessings bear! 
How strong thy pow'r that binds to home 
And bids the wayward cease to roam — 
How sweet when wearied out with care 
Some half forgot, familiar air! 
The hearth-stone seems to brighter glow 
When cheerful numbers gaily flow — 
Gf)od will, content and peace belong 
Where music reigns with merry song. 



The Potter's Field. 

A gown of haze hung round the sleepy sun 
As slowly down upon the hills he sank; 
Soon, like a giant with full face, rubicund. 
He paused, looked out upon the scene. 
Then slipped beneath the quilts of purple gold 
That lay in folds above his rocky couch. 
The gauge of time had gone, for time is naught 
To them that sleep; and nature ever wise 
Ne'er gives a thing in vain: man's time is day. 
Deep fell the shadows from the sombre trees 
That fringed a flowing stream on either bank, 
While weird and ghostly as a winding sheet 
An ashy mist ascended slow. 

(62) 



The Patterns Field, 63 

Anon 
Came forth the host nocturnal ; wheeling bats, 
The myriad swarm of insect life,the owl, and last 
The stealthy quadruped. 

Beside the stream 
Looms up a withered yew, whose gaunt bare arms 
No longer shelter give; and right beneath 
The yew, there stands a hut, its sunken roof 
And sides all crumbling with decay. Within 
The hut a candle's yellow glare falls full 
Upon the wrinkled face of Hans Von Kraft. 
His pipe, his jug of beer and pewter mug 
Are there, as they have been each lonely night 
For forty years; for forty years his hands 
Have dug the graves that hold the city's dead — 
The stranger, outcast, pauper, felon dead 
From yon metropolis, whose many lights 
Are shining bright against the sky. 

Far off 
A deep-toned bell booms out the hour, and Hans 
Von Kraft arises slowly to his feet. 
The old man peers into the dark without ; 
He takes his hat, his knotted staff, and strides 
Adown the narrow path that leads to where 
His silent wards are sleeping. Now he stops, 
For in the path where first begin the mounds 
A human form disputes his way. ''Mein Gott! 
Vot brings you here?" exclaims Von Kraft, 



64 Ballads of the Occident, 

Who views with awe the outlines dim of that 
Which stands before his bulging eyes. ' ' I come, ' * 
Replies a hollow voice, "to seek release 
From this unhallowed ground." "How comes 

you here?" [look, 

Asks Hans, in trembling tones. "Sit there and 
And hark, and you shall learn the cause that sent 
Not only me, but all who fill these cells. " 
Half wild with fright, old Hans, who knew not 

fear 
Before this night, now drops upon his knees. 
With awe-struck gaze and doubting brain he sees 
From out each grave a head, a trunk, a corpse 
Come forth, till every hillock holds a shape, 
Some seated, some reclining, some erect, 
But all intently looking at a ring of light, 
A fleecy zone, like that which circles round 
The moon when men predict a coming storm. 
The tall, grim form which first he met now points 
With bony finger at the light, the ring 
Of glow-worm light, that hovers just above 
The earth: he points, and sadly, solemnly 
Explains: "Behold, O man, this audience 
Of dank and reeking death, each one of whom 
Once shamed the virgin snow for purity; 
Note well the cause that snapped the sacred tie, 
That sent each heart adrift from virtue's realm, — 
The first false step that ends in nameless woe. 



The Potter's Field. 65 

Behold, for what you see in one lost life, 

With equal truth and force applies to all 

Who by that self-same cause were stricken low ; 

The difference of when and how is small, 

When to a common foe a life succumbs : 

He fell in battle, tells the tale ; and though 

By rifle, shell, or sabre thrust, 

The death is justly charged to gory war." 

Now Hans Von Kraft is terrified indeed; 
The Flying Dutchman, stories of the Rhine, 
The olden legends of his Fatherland, 
Are simple facts compared with what he sees; 
The wildest things are true since this is true. 
Look ! look ! a lovely scene appears 
Within the ring phosphoric: 

Happy home ! 
A father, mother, and their youthful son, 
With merry guests surround a glowing hearth ; 
Content and peace have smoothed the frowns away 
From every brow save one — and on her face. 
The patient mother's face, a grief is stamped: 
Her eyes speak out in mute appeal as he, 
Her boy, accepts a proffered glass of wine 
To drink his birthday toast. He looks at her, 
But laughs, and heeds her not. Poor, foolish 

youth ! 
The home scene fades. 



66 Ballads of the Occident, 

Now slowly dawns to view 
Another, humbler home. A pale young wife 
Is seated by a cheerless grate. A babe 
Lies sleeping in a cradle at her side. 
With wearied sigh the girlish mother turns 
And looks upon the clock : it whirs, now strikes 
The midnight hour. O wretched life — how hope, 
And doubt, and pain are flitting o'er 
Her faded face! She starts, she hears his 

step; 
Her husband reels into the room and falls 
Unconscious at her feet ; she kneels beside 
His form — the scene dies out. 

Old Hans Von Kraft 
Attempts to rise — "No, no," vehement cries 
The figure at his side, "you must not, shall 
Not leave until you see the end ! That boy 
I knew; I knew him as a man, I knew 
Him as a wreck — O God, have mercy, look!" 
And Hans, low stooping, looks. 

In bold relief, 
Like chiseled statues stand a woman and 
A child. The circling rim of light makes plain 
Each circumstance of feature, garb and form. 
A tableau more than sad is this. With hand 
Outstretched the beggar mother pleads for help; 
The little one half hides behind the rags 
That barely hide the woman's form. How wan, 



The Potter'* s Field, 67 

How pinched their faces look ! O Christ, what 

wrong 
Have these two children wrought that they, like 

thou. 
When thou wast here on earth, have not a place 
To lay their heads ! 

A hollow groan swells forth 
In unison from every grave; the forms 
Melt out — but only to give place to him 
Whose weakness stole their strength away. 

A man, 
A weary tramp with bloated face, and eyes 
All bleared with rum stands forth in grim despair. 
The ring of light glows red; within grows black, 
And on the black four words intensely burn : 
The curse of drink. 

Half dazed old Hans Von Kraft 
Now hears a wail of anguish wildly sad, 
And shrieks and sobs; and now his spectre guest 
Thus speaks: " 'Tis done. I said I knew that 

life- 
Alas ! Why should I not, for I am he ! 
Once loved — but now — ha ! what is that I see ? 
O joy!" 

Within the ring a peaceful home 
Again appears. An old man from the Book 
Of God reads out; a gray haired dame sits near 
The table whereon rests the book, and at 



68 Ballads of the Occident, 

Her side a younger wife in widow's weeds, 
While at the widow's feet a child reclines. 
"Oh, do they think of me, and love me still?" 
The goblin cries. A scroll descends and hides 
The group — upon it are these words in gold: 

Those once loved we love forever. 

Still they come and go at will. 
For their mem'ries, like our shadows, 

Haunt our steps through good or ill; 
Though the heart so freely trusted 

False has proved or lost to sin, 
Yet we sigh and wish in sorrow 

That the error had not been. 

Pride may mask the look of pity 
That the willing soul would give, 

Anger thwart the heart's forgiveness, 
Yet will Love immortal live: 

Night may hide the rose's beauty. 
Storms her tender leaves may chill, 

But though hid, though cold and broken, 
Must she shed her fragrance still. 

Old Hans Von Kraft jumps up in fright and 

knocks 
His pipe and jug of beer from off the bench; 
He starts, and yawns, and rubs his eyes. 



A Sunset Ray, 69 

The night 
Is far advanced, yet one such dream is quite 
Enough — and so he lit his pipe and smoked 
Till day. 



A Sunset Ray. 

The drooping rose may still some fragrance yield, 

The withering tree some shelter give, 
The failing brook some moisture to the field, 

And dying, bless while yet they live. 
Thus may I too, though broken-down and ill, 

Impart some goodness while I stay, 
If only this fond duty to fulfill — 

To love and guard thee till I pass away. 




The Felon's Wife. 

The scene was a court of justice, where criminals 

were tried, 
And a woman and child stood sobbing close by a 

prisoner's side. 
The man was the woman's husband, the child 

their darling boy, 
And the}' waited the dreadful sentence that would 

two fond lives destroy. 
The sunshine streamed through the window and 

fell on the judge's face, 
While the song of a bird in a tree-top seemed 

harsh and out of place; 
Then the sunlight merged into shadow, and the 

bird had ceased to sing — 
So quick are the fitful changes that fate and 

nature bring. 

The ordeal soon was over, and the woman stood 

alone, 
Alone with her tender offspring, with a heart 

that weighed like stone. 
The convict's tear still glistened like a gem on 

her pallid cheek. 
And that tear-drop mutely told her what his 

white lips could not speak. 
(70) 



The Feloft's Wife, 71 

'Twas a sad farewell, that parting, for it severed 

man and wife — 
Doomed her to toil unaided; him to servitude 

for life : 
But time soothes the deepest sorrow, and love 

will hope and pray, 
And soon like a dream grew the terrors of that 

sad and awful day. 



*Tis night on the Mississippi, and a steamer, 

staunch and new. 
Has stopped at a village landing her fuel to 

renew; 
A man, the only passenger, steps hurriedly on 

board, 
And mates and crew stand ready, waiting the 

captain's word: 
*'Haul in the gang-plank, lively! cast off your 

hawser, quick!" 
Who — 00 ! blows the hoarse, loud whistle, for the 

fog hangs low and thick : 
Dong! dong! rings the pilot's signal; plash! 

plash ! go the mammoth wheels. 
And into the gloomy shadows, like a monster 

swan she steals. 



72 Ballads of the Occident, 

A hundred souls are sleeping, and the engine's 

throbbing drone 
Has lulled the weary look-out with its drowsy 

monotone. 
Now the mist is lifting slightly, and a light 

gleams on the shore — 
'Tis gone; now the night grows blacker, more 

dismal than before: 
Who — 00 ! goes the whistle hoarsely, but the 

steamer plows along. 
For the pilot knows his bearings and he softly 

hums a song. 
Who — oo! comes a sound, and faintly, like an 

echo far away ; 
And the engine still is droning, still is heard the 

raining spray : 



"Boat ahead, sir!" calls the look-out; ''Ay, ay, 

sir, boat ahead!" 
Thus replies the watchful pilot as he glances at 

the red. 
Then turns to see the green light, which the 

mist- clouds magnify 
Till upon each wheelhouse, gleaming, stares a 

single monster eye. 
Below the lights burn dimly, for all are locked 

in sleep. 



The Felon's Wife, 73 

Save the stewardess and a porter who silent vigil 

keep — 
Who — 00! that's close upon us! dong! quick 

goes the pilot's bell, 
The engineer springs promptly and handles his 

lever well : 

"God help us! what has happened?" the frantic 

people cry, 
While terror and wild confusion are seen in 

every eye: 
Hark to the trampling overhead ! to the rudder's 

rattling chain ! 
To the shrieks that come from the cabin, where 

the women still remain ! 
One blinding flash! one shudder! now every- 
thing is still, 
Save the swash of the flowing river, and the sigh 

of the night wind chill. 
The papers were full of the story, 'twas their 

theme for a day or more. 
Then the tale grew old and the world rolled on 

as smoothly as before. 

In a lowly home by the river live a woman and 

her son. 
And the lines on their patient faces show what 

toil and care have done: 



74 Ballads of the Occide^it. 

They stand with a priest and surgeon, near the 

bed of a dying man, 
And hark to his broken whispers, while his 

ashen face the}' scan : 
His life had been worse than wasted, and his 

soul was black with sin. 
And a seething hell of sorrow was raging his 

breast within — 
*'Yet — I'd — make — one — reparation — " and his 

trembling voice sinks low — 
"I — would — do — one — thing — of — honor — the' 

the last — before — I — go. 



* * From — the — wreck — of — the — smouldering — 
steamer — fate — bore — me — bleeding — here, — 

That — my — awful — retribution — to — these — vic- 
tims — might — appear — 

I — swear! — " and his voice grows louder, **if — 
you — search — that — satchel — there — 

You — will — find — some — strange — confessions — 
and — the— proofs — of — truth — they bear — ' ' 

On the wall hangs a bag all blistered, which the 
woman hastes to reach. 

For she of all his hearers knows the purport of 
his speech. 

**This proves my husband's innocence! Thank 
God for what you've said!" 



The Felon's Wife. 75 

And she turns to the lonely passenger, only to 
find him dead. 



Softly the sunbeams golden steal by a prison bar, 
Lighting an empty dungeon whose iron door 

stands ajar; 
And the same sun lights a cottage, with a warm 

and cheery glow, 
Where three fond hearts united, with rapture 

overflow : 
""O husband," the woman whispers, ''I knew 

that you told me true;" 
And he smiles and gently answers, "Let us our 

vows renew; 
Come, boy, kiss your new found mother, whom 

we'll love to the end of life. 
For we've bid farewell forever to the grief -tried 

felon's wife." 




The Four Kisses. 

A baby on a woman's breast 
Has fallen asleep in peaceful rest; 
With tender care she lays it down, 
Draws o'er its feet the tiny gown; 
Then, thrilled with love, with holy bliss, 
Bends low and gives 

A mother's kiss. 



With blushing cheeks, with downcast eyes 
A maiden struggles, softly sighs, 
Then yields. And from her fancy's flow 
Drinks deep the joy that angels know; 
Thus two hearts learn the rapturous bliss 
That comes to all, with 

Love's first kiss. 

A troop halts at a cottage door, 
A young wife craves one moment more; 
Her husband draws her to his side, 
"Thou art," says he, "a soldier's bride; 
O love, I can but give thee this — 
And this — and this — 

My farewell kiss.'* 
(76) 



The Four Kisses, 



77 



The lamps shed forth a tender light 
Upon a sweet face, cold and white ; 
The flowers lie strewn, the dirge is sung, 
The rite is o'er, the bell has rung: 
God help them, by that dread abyss, 
Who sobbing press 

The last sad kiss. 




The Dead Letter. 

There, now! I've read your letter through 

Three times; I'll read it once again 
If you say so; it rests with you. 

What? loan you paper, ink and pen? 
Why, man, you're weaker than a child. 

To-morrow I will gladly write 
Whate'er you wish. Be reconciled, 

Compose yourself and rest to-night. 

You think we nuns are good to tend 

The sick, to count our beads, and pray, 
But that we do not comprehend 

How worldly people dread delay 
In getting word from those they love : 

Why, sir, you know not what you say — 
Ah ! this dark robe too well doth prove 

The sorrow of that by-gone day — 

No, no; I fully understand 

What you would say. There's no offence; 
Naught to forgive. There take my hand. 

We now are friends. In confidence 
The story of a broken life, 

Before the doctor comes, I'll tell: 
Of how I shunned the cold world's strife 

And sought a quiet convent cell. 
(78) 



The Dead Letter, 79 

Far back in life I loved a man, 

A gen'rotis, noble heart and true: 
And he loved me as only can, 

As only gallant natures do. 
Our days passed by so quietly, 

Love's dream so rosy-hued had grown 
That seasons glided by ere we 

Would note that e'en a month had flown. 



Thus ran my girlhood and his youth, 

Till came the naming of the happy day- 
Our wedding day — that would in truth 

Have made us man and wife for aye. 
When, like a blow from one we love, 

There came an unexpected woe; 
In vain 'gainst fate we madly strove; 

Each cherished hope lay scattered low. 



A crime had been committed in 

The village where lived he and I ; 
And 'mid the first wild, senseless din 

That marked the people's hue and cry, 
Suspicion on him fell, and so, 

To 'scape the frenzied, 'vengeful mob, 
He, innocent, resolved to go 

Away — and I to stay and sob. 



8o Ballads of the Occident, 

Then, bending low, said he, ''This thing 

Will only for a season last, 
A moment full relief may bring; 

At most our grief will soon be past; 
But, darling, should it not be so. 

Write' ' (he whispered a fictitious name), 
**And I will by your letter know 

That in your eyes I bear no shame. ' ' 



The rain fell from a dark'ning sky. 

The apple blossoms scattered lay. 
The chill wind moaned, and night drew nigh, 

As with a sigh he turned away — 
I watched his form till lost in gloom, 

And, save the dripping of the rain, 
There fell a stillness of the tomb — 

A lull that seemed to daze my brain. 



The morning after that sad night 

The guilty one was found ; and I, 
With woman's haste, sat down to write, 

And wrote in joyous ecstasy; 
The letter mailed, each moment seemed 

An age ; but days and weeks passed by — 
With visions dread my fancy teemed — 

But came he not, nor made reply. 



The Dead Letter, 8i 

One day, when hope had almost fled, 

The postman thrust it in my hand: 
*'This is from Washington," he said, 

"Dead-letter office, understand?" 
With throbbing heart I broke the seal, 

My face grew whiter than a sheet. 
The dreadful blunder made me reel 

And drop the letter at my feet. 



Instead of the fictitious name 

He gave, it bore his own, 
Which knowing not, he could not claim — 

To him my lines were never known — 
In loneliness he died : and here 

I nurse the sick ; but I have done — 
And, sir, no longer have a fear 

To trust me, though I'm but a nun. 



You've heard a portion of my tale 

Before? From whom? Oh, tell me quick ! 
From my lost love? You both set sail 

In the same ship? My heart grows sick — 
What? Still alive? Oh, God be praised! 

Oh, joy ! Oh, joy ! And I will write ? 
Now that my dead to life is raised — 

Will I? Yes, now — this very night. 



The Coquette. 

Two girls sat in a gay saloon, nor mingled with 

the crowd; 
The younger 's face was pale and sad, the elder's 

stern and proud. 

'*0h, Gertrude," said the younger girl, *'thou 

art a sad coquette; 
Ah, many hearts have felt thy power, and thou 

art flirting yet. 

* * There's one who fills a foreign grave, who loved 

thee all too well. 
Who breathed thy name forgivingly as in the 

fray he fell ; 

"And yet his fate was better far than that of 

poor Martelle, 
Who lonely clanks his heavy chains— a ma4- 

man — in his cell. 

"Oh, Gertrude," in a softer tone, "give up thy 

selfish arts. 
Or hopeless love will be thy doom for blighting 

loving hearts. " c 

(82) ; 



The Coquette, 83 

Thus far had Maud unchecked reproved, when 

Gertrude coldly said, 
* * I care not for the living dupes, why blame me 

for the dead ? 

**Thy lover, sure, is naught to me, so quell thy 

jealous fears; 
When seeking game I ever strive to strike among 

my peers." 

** *Tis not my lover," Maud replied, while 

blushes bathed her brow, 
"But brother Paul I fain would save — for him 

I'm pleading now. 

*'Of kin, he's all I have on earth — so noble, 

brave and pure — 
Too good, alas, to sacrifice-^defeat he'd ne'er 

endure. ' ' 

But Gertrude rose and took the hand that claimed 

her for the dance. 
While Maud stole to the balcony— did Paul stand 

there b}^ chance? 

It seemed not so— anon there came a lass sur- 
passing fair; 

Some hurried words, a merry laugh — they seek 
the gaslight's glare. 



84 Ballads of the Occident. 

Soon Paul claims Gertrude for the waltz; she 

yields and softly sighs, 
Then off they whirl while glances dart from 

scores of jealous eyes. 

******** 

The full round moon now rides on high; the 

fragrant air is cool, 
The fountain's spray, like flashing gems, darts 

in the limpid pool. 

A rustic seat girts round an oak, and Paul leads 

Gertrude there. 
She by his side, he takes her hand, so small, so 

soft and fair. 

In accents low he thus began: *'0h, Gertrude, till 

to-night 
True happiness I never knew, and may it ne'er 

take flight. 

**Say, may I tell my tale, and hope to gain a 

smile from thee? 
Approving words to ease a heart that is no longer 

free? 

*'I'm lonely now, for sister Maud is soon to be a 

bride ; 
Then wonder not because I seek a refuge at thy 

side." 



The Coquette, 85 

She murmured half inaudibly: "Dear Paul, I 

long to hear ; 
Thou'lt get a smile for ev'ry smile, a tear for 

ev'ry tear." 

"Enough, kind Gertrude, listen then: for years 

I've roamed afar; 
I've sailed beneath the Southern Cross, I've lost 

the Northern Star; 

"But now I once more breathe the air of home^^ 
I'll never stray; 

I only need a loving wife — why tremble, Ger- 
trude, say? 

"But soon I'll tell thee all I may; say, wilt thou 

share my joy? 
God willing, this night, two weeks hence, I 

marry Kate I,eRoy. " 

Poor Gertrude heard no more that eve, nor saw 

she Paul again ; 
The rose-tints faded from her cheeks; at last she 

loved — in vain. 

Her wasted form the church-yard holds; Aht 

never this forget : 
A woman's love is woman's life, e'en tho* a gay^ 

coquette. 



Six O'clock. 

Down by the rugged coast of Maine 

Breaks on the air the glad refrain 

That welcomes old Time on his westward flight, 

That makes the dull eye of the toiler bright, 

And heralds the bliss of a single night; 

Thus bell and whistle with clang and shriek, 

At six o'clock, and six times a week. 

Loveliest hour of all the day. 
Blest is thy sweet and mystic sway : 
Affection and hope in their might are rife 
In each watching child; in the waiting wife; 
The father that tramps from his daily strife; 
The widow's son and his fond embrace; 
In the smile that beams on her pallid face. 

Who hath not felt the wondrous spell, 
Ushered by whistle and by bell ? 
A halo of peace round each home it flings; 
To poor and to weary relief it brings; 
And e'en the black tea-kettle gaily sings: 
O moments calm ! Ye foretell the rest 
That soon must come to each human breast. 

Westward speed on o'er hill and dell, 
City and town and cot to tell ; 
(86) 



True Friendship. 87 

On, on, like a courier, dash away, 
Hard pressing the heels of departing day 
Till stopped by the waters of " 'Frisco" Bay! 
Thus bell and whistle with clang and shriek, 
At six o'clock, and six times a week. 



True Friendship. 

*Twixt friends there is a silken tie 
That binds, unseen, 'neath sunlit sky. 
When hearts are gay and bright the eye, 

When pleasure's words are spoken; 
But when comes grief, distress and pain, 
Behold the silken tie's a chain 
Whose links ill fortune strikes in vain 

And sorrow leaves unbroken. 




The Sailor's Story. 

Flood tide. * * All strangers leave the ship !* ' 

The boatswain hoarselj^ cried. 
Then hand grasped hand in fervent grip, 
And lips pressed lips in fond adieu, 

As o'er the vessel's side 
Each loved one parted from her crew. 

''Dear mother," keep this flageolet 

Till I come home from sea — 
I'll often write, nor shall forget 
I am a widow's only stay — 

God bless you, pray for me. 
Be quick ! the vessel's under weigh !" 

The ship sailed off. The sailor boy, 

That woman's darling child. 
So late her sad life's only joy. 
Soon grew to like his new friends' ways, 

To join their revels wild — 
While lone his mother passed her days. 

In far-off lands he learned to love 

The soul-distressing cup. 
Nor ever sought for help above ; 
Home, mother, God, all were forgot, 

Good thoughts rum swallowed up 
And left him but a helpless sot. 
(88) 



The Sailor Boy, 8.9 

At home, his mother, bent and wan, 

Toils patient day and night. 
Oft bending o'er her work till dawn; 
And oft against the window pressed 

Her face is seen, a sight 
Most touching, careworn, grief -distressed. 

The letter-man has passed the door, 

He does so ev'ry day; 
The widow's heart is sick and sore. 
For not a line in three long years 

Has come to light her way 
Or stop the flowing of her tears. 

By piecemeal all her scanty store 

Has gone to buy her bread, 
Yet sickness, want, claim one thing more, 
The thing she fain would cling to yet, 

And fainting, almost dead. 
She pawns her darling's flageolet. 

The awnings flap, the shutters bang, 

The night air's filled with sleet; 
Three golden balls above us hang. 
Below, a woman, stiff and cold. 

Lies, friendless, in the street — 
Dead, near the flageolet she sold ! 



90 Ballads of the Occident. 

A broker's sale. The room is filled 

(For Christmas time is near) 
With some to buy, while others chilled 
Have slipped in from the biting cold. 

*'We want a bid, look here, 
Silver-keyed, and washed with gold !" 

The auctioneer then paused, for, lo ! 

A man leaped on his stand, 
*'My flageolet! oh, mother's woe!" 
And sobs choked up the sailor's throat, 

As with his brawny hand 
His heaving bosom wild he smote. 

He learned, though late, that wine deceives, 
That strong drink leads to death ; 

That abstinence alone relieves 

The drunkard from disgrace, distress, 
Makes pure his rum-fouled breath, 

That temperance doth ever bless. 

And thus the sailor's story ends, 

A story all too true ; 
Yet judge not harshly, gentle friends. 
He was a loving boy and brave, 

Loved by a reckless crew, 
Whose lesson is a mother's grave. 



The Old Spinster. 

No, she never was married, but was to have 

been — 
- 'At the time she was running the loom — 
But the fact'ry burned down, some were mangled 
• and scarred, 

And her lover was never her groom. 
As he wedded a handsomer girl. 

To the stranger, old Rachel was ugly indeed, 
For her features were grim and distorted ; 

Tho' in years long gone by she was lovely and 
fair, 
As the hopes of her life that were thwarted 

By the dreadful mishap in the mill. 

But beneath the plain calico gown that she wore, 
Beat a heart that was loving and tender — 

As the villagers knew — -and man, woman or child 
'Gainst the merest rude speech would defend 
her. 

So well was the poor woman loved. 

And right many's the maid, who, bewailing her 
woe. 
Has told Rachel the slight that distressed her, 
Only soon to trip on with a happier look, 

While the silly goose inwardly blessed her. 
For her comforting words and advice. 

- (91) - -^ 



92 Ballads of the Occide^zt, 

Then the urchins have gone to her, covered with 
mud, 
Afraid to go home — perhaps crying — 
But old Rachel (the remedy) washed out the 
stains. 
And they laughed while their garments were 
drying, 
In the yard at the back of her cot. 

When the villagers slept, and the cricket and owl, 
And the rustling of leaves were unheeded, 

In the room of the sick, by the flickering light 
Was she seen, where her presence was needed ^ 

While her gaunt shadow danced on the wall. 

And the outcasts who begged at her door for a 
crust. 
Ere they went on their wearisome ways. 
Felt that one thought them human and pitied 
their fate, 
Who recalled the remembrance of earlier days, 
And who reckoned them not by their rags. 

But the weight of her grief which was never 
revealed, — 
Save to Jesus — the friend of the lowly — 
Bore her down — and the sands of her desolate 
life. 
Which for years had been ebbing out slowly, ; 
Ceased to run — and her spirit was freed. 



The Old Spinster. 93 

When the villagers stood at the side of her grave, 
When the gray-headed preacher's voice fal- 
tered, 
When the tears trickled down the bronzed cheeks 
of the men — 
Oh ! her beauty seemed fresh and unaltered 
As when happy she worked in the mill. 

And oft where she lies a bent form can be seen 
When the twilight is deep'ning its shadows: 

And the sweetest of flow 'rets are found on her 
tomb. 
All fresh from the dew-gleaming meadows; 

Yet who gathers them no one can tell. 




The Deacon's Sermon. 

Mortal man is prone to blunder, 

So is mortal woman, too; 
Any one is apt to blunder, 

I am apt to, so are you. 

But the blunder of all blunders. 
That will blunder be for life, 

Is when choosing to make blunder 
In a husband or a wife. 

Marriages, they say, are destined, 
Made by wiser powers on high ; 

But for that no proof is shown us, 
Nor is given a reason why. 

If your idol short or tall is. 

Silken tressed, or bald, or gray. 

Fair and youthful, old and wrinkled, 
Sad in look, or bright :and gay, — 

If both talented and wealthy. 
If unlettered, humble, poor, 

This remember : If love guides you 
All things else you may endure. 

(94) 



Dying to Win. 

Fierce blows the gale and cold, 

Loudly the windows rattle ; 
Why, the stars seemed never half so bright. 
Hark ! 'Twas a bell that tolled— 

There, again ! must I battle 
Through another dreadful winter night ? 

Better by far to die. 

Who in this mighty city 
Wastes a thought on such a wretched life ? 
Who heeds my weary sigh ? 

Who sheds a tear in pity ? 
All alone I wage the bitter strife. 

Bright gleams yon chandelier, 

Gay sound the reckless voices ; 
And how tempting warm the red grate glows ! 
No ! rather perish here — 

Ah, no- — my soul rejoices, 
For I triumph spite of all my woes. 

Now, that Vve made my vow, 

Who comes to help me keep it ? 
Are the saints that preach asleep or dead? 
Ripe is the harvest now, 

Yet comes there none to reap it. 
Not a cent ! no home ; no crust of bread. 
(95) 



96 Ballads of the Occident, 

Fie, upon hearts so cold ! 

Not one will deign to aid me ; 
And my own sex turn me off with scorn ; 
Sneer at me ; call me bold ; 

Taunt me, and then upbraid me — 
Oh, my God, how can I wait till morn? 

Mother, is that you there? 

Surely, I must be dreaming — 
Do not leave me, mother; take me home! 
Oh, how keen bites the air ! 

Yonder the dawn is gleaming. 
It is I, your child: Oh, mother, come! 

Sleepy, indeed, am I — 

Wait till I kneel down, mother — 

Now I lay me down to sleep — keep off — 

Help! help! help! I shall die- 
Give me some air — I smother ! 

I am saved ! Now let the cold world scoff. 



Fierce blows the gale and cold. 

Loudly the windows rattle. 
And the stars are paling out with fright: 
Oh, 'tis a tale oft told: 

Done is the hard-fought battle — 
And a weary soul has said good-night. 



A Legend of the Declaration. 

A hundred years and more have fled 
Since brave Columbia burst the chains 

That tyranny and avarice wed. 

Then liberty was yet a dream — 

A hymn still sung in whispered strains — 

A first gray dawn, a herald beam 
Of Freedom's sun. 

'Twas then oppression's ruthless hand 
Was striving to regain its prey, 

And spread dismay throughout the land. 

Heroic souls at once convened 

To crush a hated monarch's sw^ay, 

Whose dastard rule had fullj^ weaned 
His subjects' love. 

Bach colony her chosen sent 

To Philadelphia's spacious hall, 
The people's will to represent. 
Success would crown them Patriots brave — 

One thing was needful to them all, 
Or each might find a traitor's grave — 
'Twas unanimity. 
7 (97) 



98 Ballads of the Occident, 

The Continental Congress met ; 

Each delegate had said his say, 
Save one, who had not spoken yet. 
With lis the vote remained a tie: 

Good Pennsylvania held the sway — * 
'Twas she who now must cast the die, 
To wreck or save. 

John Morton's called; all eyes are strained — 
The Federal Arch is almost built — 

The arch that Freedom's God ordained. 

He voted right, all undismayed 

E'en though his true heart's blood be spilt — 

And thus he nobly, safely laid 
The Keystone. 

And so the mighty deed was done, 
That makes us what we are to-day, 

By which our sovereign right was won. 

John Morton gained eternal fame, 
'Twill last with Independence day. 

And Pennsylvania gained a name — 
The Keystone State. 



* The vote on the Declaration was by Colonies. Six had voted 
for and six against the measure ; the Pennsylvania delegation 
had the casting vote, and it being equally divided, John Morton 
decided the momentous question, thus making Pennsylvania the 
"Keystone State." 



The River. 

The sun had set. The ruddy clouds 
Had changed to gloomy gray, 

And sweet, sad twilight soothed the hour 
Forsaken by the day. 

A village road, with nest-like cots, 

And oaks, on either hand. 
An old stone bridge, whose single arch, 

A dark, deep river spanned : 

And sounds of distant merry shouts 

Were borne upon the breeze. 
When, on the bridge there came a maid 

And sank upon her knees. 

A maid ? Perhaps a slighted wife — 
Or neither — none could tell — 

A stricken life — a broken heart, 
About to bid farewell — 

Farewell to that, which lacking hope, 

Is but a dreary waste ; 
Where Nature's brightest, fairest sweets 

Grow bitter to the taste. 
(99) 



lOO Ballads of the Occident. 

She rose — advanced unto the brink — 
A wild, imploring prayer — 

Alas ! she stood, unloved — alone — 
A statue of despair. 

One plaintive wail, and then a plunge 
The wavelets laved the shore — 

Then all was still. The river flowed 
As smoothly as before. 



A Grain of Truth. 



The luxury derived in doing good 

Is oft the only recompense men get 

For kindly deeds; e'en toil of years is paid 

Too oft with ingrate acts, and motives pure 

As angel thoughts are powerless to stay 

Suspicion's tongue; but, oh, 'tis sweet to know 

Our duty has been done 'twixt man and man, 

To feel we have been loyal to ourselves ; 

To know one voice at least proclaims us true, 

The whispered voice of God, within our hearts ! 



Out of Season. 

The breakers sing the same old song 

As in the days of yore, 
And the sea-birds skim the surf along 

As gayly as before ; 
But the lighthouse looms above the fell, 

Like the over-tired ghost 
Of some poor, lonely sentinel 

Forgotten on his post. 
No footprints mark the gleaming sands, 
Nor puddles, made by tiny hands, 
But drear and barren slopes the beach 
To where the rushing billows reach. 

The wreck whose rotten ribs and dank 

Are bedded in the strand, 
That marks the place the swimmer sank 

While drifting from the land — 
In the days agone a trysting place, 

Where the fond love vows were said — 
Now seems to clasp in weird embrace 

Its ancient, gallant dead. 
The ebb and flow of the salty tide. 

The crash of the tumbling wave. 
So constant, mock the love that died. 

The sailor's shifting grave. 

(lOl) 



I02 Ballads of the Occident. 

No more the merry voice is heard, 

The jest, or repartee, 
The vulgar shout, nor friendly word 

Nor chant of passing glee. 
And the old board-walk gives forth no sound, 

For the feet that here once trod 
Are pressing other, distant ground, 

Or resting 'neath the sod. 
A gray-beard, mule, and crazy cart 

Move down the noble drive, 
Of summer's busy scenes a part. 

That lonely still survives. 

How like a city of the dead. 

Plague-struck, or seared by fate — 
How all the life and mirth have fled, 

How drear and desolate ! 
The lofty structure, cozy cot, 

And the broad and lengthy porch, 
Where dozed the throng all limp and hot. 

Or strolled to 'scape the summer's scorch; 
The halls, where maiden, beau and bride 

Oft danced 'mid music and garlands grand 
The waltz, quadrille and graceful glide — 

Alike deserted, mournful stand ! 

The twilight fades, the crescent dips 

lyow down the western sky. 
The shadow-forms of distant ships 

Are lost unto the eye ; 



A Lovei^"^ s Wish, 

Yet the mystic voice of the ocean old 

Finds an echo in the heart, 
And lulled is the breast of the meek or bold 

At the tales the waves impart; 
The lofty mountain thrills the soul, 

And pleasant is the lea, 
But peace reigns where the billows roll — 

'Tis whispered by the sea! 



103 



A Lover's Wish. 



Thou hast a place within my heart 
Where others ne'er can share a part — 
There thou alone, with power serene, 
Shall ever reign, my chosen queen: 
'Mid all the scenes of busy life. 
When wearied out with worldly strife, 
At twilight gray, at midnight drear, 
Thy lovely form seems ever near. 

Fate, forbid that love like this 
Should never know a sweeter bliss 
Than that which only dreams accord. 
Or hope, desire and faith afford ! 

1 crave with all my soul that thine 
May wed eternally with mine — 
And not in name, but heart and life, 
That thou wilt be my cherished wife. 



Woman. 

You ask what I think of woman, 

If I deem her nature true, 
Or think her a creature fickle 

That the wise should not pursue. 
You ask for my frank opinion 

Of her heart's uncertain laws, 
As judged by the scribes and poets 

In their thousand time-worn saws. 
Well, I'll give you the information, 

Only glad to know I can, 
For men may, perhaps, believe it, 

Since the witness is a man. 

All women are pure by instinct. 

As the lily at birth is white ; 
And as northward points the needle. 

So their souls incline to right. 
Woman's ever first in goodness. 

First in pity, first to bless. 
And when scorned, deceived or tempted^ 

I^ast, reluctant, to transgress. 
Her faith in reciprocation 

Is the chain that binds her love — 
In that dream her heart's as steadfast 

As the stars that burn above. 
(104) 



Rizpah. 

2 Samuel xxi. i-ii. 

Night came at last. The noisy throng had gone, 
And where the sun so late, like alchemist, 
Turned spear and shield and chariot to gold 
No sound was heard. 

The awful deed was done ; 
And vengeance sated to the full had turned 
Away. The Amorites had drunk the blood 
Of Saul and were content. The last armed guard 
Had gone, and stillness dwelt upon the scene. 
The rocky mount slept fast in solitude ; 
The dry, dead shrubs stood weird and grim, and 

marked 
The narrow, heated road that sloped and wound 
To join the King's highway. No living thing 
Was seen; nor insect, bird nor beast was heard; 
The very air came noiselessly across 
The blighted barley fields below, yet stirred 
No leaflet with its sultry breath. 

Above, 
A mist half hid the vaulted firmament. 
And stars shone dimly as though through a veil; 
Still was their light full adequate to show 
Those rigid shapes that seeming stood erect, 
Yet bleeding hung, each from its upright cross, 
A mute companion to its ghastly kin. 
(105) 



io6 Ballads of the Occident, 

The middle Vv^atch was come, yet silence still 
Oppressed the night; the twigs stood motionless 
Like listening phantoms, when, from out 
The shadow of a jutting rock there came 
A moving thing of life, a wolf-like form : 
With slow and stealthy tread it came, then 

stopped 
To sniff the air, then nearer moved to where 
The seven gibbets stood. 

Then came a shriek, 
A cry of mortal fear that pierced the soul 
Of night; then up from earth a figure sprang, 
The frightened jackal leaped away, and once 
More Rizpah crouched beneath her dead. 

So night 
And day she watched; beneath the burning sun 
By day, beneath the stars and moon by night; 
All through the long Passover Feast she watched. 
Oft in the lonely vigil back through years 
She went; in fancy she was young again. 
The favored one of mighty Saul, the King ; 
Again she mingled with the courtly throng. 
And led her laughing boys before her lord, 
Their father. 

Starting then, with upturned face, 
And gazing from her hollow, tearless eyes, 
Her blackened lips would move, but make no 

sound. 



Rizpah. 107 

Then sinking to the ground she caught once 

more 
The thread of thought, and thought brought 

other scenes ; 
She saw the stripling warrior David, son 
Of Jesse, whom the populace adored 
And Saul despised ; then Merab came, and then 
Her sweet- faced sister, Michal, whose quick wit 
And love saved David's life. 

Then Rizpah rose. 
Yea, like a tigress sprang unto her feet. 
''Thou David, curst be thee and thine!" she 

shrieked, 
' 'Thou ingrate murderer ! Had Saul but lived, 
And hadst thou fallen upon thy sword instead. 
My sons, my children still would live!" 

'Twas in 
The morning watch, and Rizpah' s last, that 

bright. 
Clear glowed the Milky Way. The Pleiades 
Like molten gold shone forth ; e'en she who loved 
The mortal Sisyphus peeped timidly, 
And so the Seven wond'ring sisters gazed 
Upon the Seven crucified below. 
Such cause for woman's pity ne'er was seen, 
And stars, e'en stones might weep for Rizpah 's 

woe, 
Whose mother-love was deathless as her soul. 



io8 Ballads of the Occident, 

The gray dawn came. The sky was overcast ; 
The wind had changed, and sobbed a requiem. 
Still Rizpah slept, and dreamed. She heard the 

sound 
Of harps and timbrels in her girlhood home — 
When rush of wings awakened her. She rose. 
Her chilled form shaking unto death. She looked, 
And saw the loathsome vultures at their work. 
With javelin staff in hand she beat them off, 
But bolder were they as she weaker grew, 
Till one huge bird swooped at her fierce, 
And sunk its talons in her wasted arm. 
She threw it off, the hideous monster fled. 
And Rizpah fell. It then began to rain. 
The famine ceased, and Rizpah 's watch was done. 



Lines to Lizzie— 1866. 

Had I but thy sweet face to cheer my way 
The darkest night would seem as bright as day; 
No earthly cares could mar my happy lot. 
The dreary past should ever be forgot : 
Nor could I wish for more, nor ask for less 
When rev'ling in such perfect happiness; 
For, to man, is woman not truly worth 
Just what the sun is to our own cold earth ? 



Farewell. 

With white sails set the vessels glide 
Fast onward o'er the drifting tide. 
'Tis now while near and yet in view 
That still is heard the fond adieu; 
'Tis now that lips and gestures tell 
The heart's good-bye, the sad farewell ! 

To-night, when sails to sight are lost 
And gloomy darkness veils the coast ; 
To-night, when children fast asleep 
Forget who sails the lonely deep. 
To one will sound, like funeral knell, 
Her husband's dreaded word, farewell. 

The helmsman, as he grasps the wheel, 
The sea spra}^ on his cheek can feel, 
And to his mind each drop appears 
The moisture of his loved ones' tears; 
And in a song he tries to quell 
The sadness of their sweet farewell. 

Each day the word "Farewell" is said, 
The silent, parting tear is shed; 
And so each daj'' warm hearts unite, 
Some home is reached, some eye made bright; 
What glooms the word is : none can tell 
Which time 'twill be a last farewell. 
(109) 



The Caliph's Dream. 

I stood alone beside a mighty sea; 
The waves in awful majesty swept in 
And crashed upon the strand. Far out beyond 
The snowy-crested line of breakers rode 
A ship; and as she rose and fell her tall 
Masts seemed to trace a message on the sky: 
"O ship! O restless w^aste!" I cried, "Be true, 
Be merciful, that they who watch on board, 
And they that wait at home, may once more 

clasp 
The hands and press the lips of those they love. " 

The vision changed. I sat beneath my tent. 
'Twas noon. Upon my right the desert sands 
Stretched hot and gleaming till they touched the 

sky; 
Upon my left lay leagues of sand ; before, 
Behind; which way I looked was burning sand: 
The fierce sun overhead poured down a stream 
Of heat intolerable. Silence reigned. 
The caravan had gone. I leaned low down 
To hearken, but in vain. Abandoned! Lost! 
Would my siesta prove a sleep of death ? 

Another scene : The sun had set, and peace 
Pervaded hill and dale. A sweet perfume 
(no) 



The Caliph' s Dream, iii 

Of flowers filled the evening air. The sound 
Of tinkling bells came faintly from a plain 
Where camels browsed. The slender minarets, 
And stately domes of mosques, proclaimed a 

town, 
That nestled 'mid the distant, waving palms. 
A troop of horsemen slowly came in view; 
Their banner bore the crescent and the star. 
I knelt and cried: ** Praise be to Allah's name!' ' 

And then, it seemed, I was within a grot 

That opened on a placid lake. The moon 

Was at the full and o'er the water threw 

A track of silver sheen. Beside me stood 

A child with upturned face. I placed my hand 

Upon its head, when, lo ! from out the lake 

Arose a horrid, monster form. It glared 

With baleful eyes and then advanced. **Keep 

off! 
Keep off!" I shrieked, then seized the child and 

turned 
To fly — when suddenly the vision changed : 

Once more I dwelt beneath my parents' roof, 
A happy, careless child. The olden scenes 
Were fresh again, and things forgot had life 
And form. O home ! — how blest are they that 

have 
A home ! — sweet haven sure when others fail ! 



112 Ballads of the Occident, 

*'0h, do not leave me, darling boy, my own!** 
It was my mother's voice. Ah, yes, her eyes 
Were beaming love, as angel-like she smiled 
And kissed my brow. And, as I watched her 

face, 
I woke and wept to know 'twas but a dream. 



Woman's Worth. 

I still maintain that woman 

Alone lends charm to life, 
That for her smile approving 

Man braves all toil and strife; 
Without her, earth were empty, 

Its pathways drear and long, 
Its harvests gloomy banquets 

Devoid of mirth and song. 



Kindly Acts. 



A kindly act is seldom lost, 
And, oh, how small indeed the cost, 
That oft relieves the breast of pain, 
And bids the heart take hope again ! 



The Burning City. 

Fire ! Fire ! Hark to the cry, 
As the flames light up the lurid sky ! 
The hissing, the crackling, the dreadful roar- 
The red tongues lapping the house tops o'er. 
To the north ! to the east ! like a moving hell- 
Shrieking and groaning — plunging pell-mell, 
Madly the withering demon comes ! 
Leaving his trail in the smould'ring homes, 
In the shrunken, black, disfigured corse — 
Invalid, infant, dog and horse 
Alike they lay — while far ahead. 
Where the terror-stricken throng have fled, 
Bravely cov'ring the wild retreat 
With their engines snorting in ev'ry street, 
Or charging the foe with axe in hand. 
The noble firemen make a stand — 
Till wounded, blistered, wearied out, 
They slowly join the gen'ral rout! 
A motley medley, stricken with woe, 
The houseless thousands onward go — 
Packed like mules — som.e curse and rave, 
Staggering under the goods they'd save; 
A wailing babe, but partly dressed, 
Nestles close to its father's breast, 
8 (113) 



114 Ballads of the Occident, 

While to his arm the pale-faced wife 
Clings as though for her very life ! 
Barrows, wagons, carts and drays 
Rumble away from the hungry blaze — 
The sick take rest, and are left behind 
To care for the lame, the weak and blind. 
Murdering, pillaging — drunken yells ! 
And so the ghastly chorus swells. 
Till morning breaks in the eastern sky, 
And shows to the heavy, bloodshot eye, 
Ruined Chicago ! 



Camellia. 



Oh tell me why those drooping eyes 

Have lost their wonted light ? 
Eyes that ever were so cheerful. 
Now so often sad and tearful. 

Mourning o'er some hidden blight- 
Tell me why those weary sighs? 

Has some fond hope cruelly broken 
Into fragments of despair — 

Has some dream of sweet conception 

Been dispelled by base deception. 
Or the thing deemed pure and fair 

Proved a false and worthless token ? 



The Last Salute. 

Yes, the ranks are growing smaller 

With the coming of each May, 
And the beards and locks once raven 

Now are mingled thick with gray; 
Soon the hands that strew the flowers 

Will be folded still and cold, 
And our story of devotion 

Will forever have been told. 

Years and years have passed by, comrades, 

Though it seems but yesterday 
Since the Blue-garbed Northern legions 

Marched to meet the Southern Gray — 
But a day since Massachusetts 

Bade her soldier boys good-bye — 
But a day since Alabama 

Heard her brave sons' farewell cry. 

Those are days we all remember, 

In our hearts we hold them yet ; 
And the kiss we got at parting. 

Who can ever that forget? 
And it may have been a mother, 

A fond father, or a wife, 
Or a maid whose love was dearer 

To the soldier's heart than life. 
(115) 



Ii6 Ballads of the Occident. 

Then the silent midnight marches, 

And the fierce-fought battle's roar, 
And the sailor's lonely watches, 

Gone, please God, forevermore: 
Though these ne'er can be forgotten 

While the dew our graves shall wet, 
Yet the color of our jackets 

Let each gallant heart forget ; 

For the ranks are growing smaller, 

And though decked in blue or gray. 
Soon both armies will be sleeping 

In their shelter-tents of clay. 
But the loud reverberation 

Of the last salute shall be 
Oft re-echoed through the ages 

As the tocsin of the free ! 

For we both but did our duty, 

In the Great Jehovah's plan. 
And the world has learned a lesson 

That all men may read who can ; 
And when gathered for the muster 

On the last and dreadful day. 
May that God extend His mercy 

Sweet, alike to Blue and Gray. 



The Pilgrim. 

When alone by the banks of the river I stray 
And watch the dark tide as it ripples away ; 
When I see the frail flow 'rets of summer decay. 
Which come with the morn and decline with the 
day — 

When a meteor tracks its bright way through 

the sky, 
Sheds forth its refulgence, then fades to the eye; 
When the dead leaves of autumn are borne 

sadly by 
On the winds as they hurry along with a sigh ; 

When I think of my childhood, that season of 

bliss, 
And compare its fond joys with the sorrows of 

this; 
When I strive to be true, yet in truth am remiss, 
And stand on the brink of some sinful abyss — 

When I trace in the embers one dearly loved 
face, 

And dwell on the kiss and the farewell em- 
brace ; 

("7) 



ii8 Ballads of the Occident. 

When I think of one form, of its beauty and 

grace, 
Of the warm heart now cold in its last resting 

place — 

Oh, how can I help, as I wearily plod, 
A sigh for escape from the chastening rod, 
When 'neath the blue violets, under the sod, 
The highway leads on to a merciful God ! 



The Blessing of Sight. 

As music thrills the soul with ecstasy 

Although its essence is impalpable 

As air; as perfumes sweet intoxicate 

With force invisible, so nian}^ things 

Unseen impart some pleasure to the mind, 

Bach like a melody : but yonder star. 

The silent eloquence of yonder star 

O'erwhelms me with a higher, nobler joy, 

For in its golden fire I see the hand 

Of God, the Master hand, whose mystic touch 

Blends ev'ry bliss in one grand harmony. 

How precious, then, the priceless boon of sight! 



Approaching Spring. 

Spring is coming; genial sunshine 

Soon will make the meadows green, 
Fill the leafless boughs with foliage, 

Gladden all this dreary scene. 
Soon the. buttercups and daisies 

Will succeed the melting snow, 
And the April showers urge the 

Stubborn mountain drifts to go. 

Soon the frog will croak a greeting 

To his namesake on the tree, 
While the evening hum of insects 

And the murmur of the sea 
Blend in music low, and sv^^eeter 

Than the choicest strains of art — 
Nature's soft and plaintive whisp' rings 

Ever soothe the weary heart. 

Countless songs in happy numbers 

Yearly greet the coming May; 
Yet her brightness seems the brightness 

Of a sad October day 
To the souls that Fate has frozen 

In the depths of bitter woe — 
And the warbler's voice but mocks the 

Hidden griefs we may not show. 
(119) 



The Thief on the Cross. 

ARGUMENT. 

In order to portray the bold, defiant nature of the thief, he is first 
presented to the reader while Ij-ing in wait for a traveler, whom he 
attacks; during the combat the traveler momentarily gains the 
mastery, and the thief's life is threatened. Yet he scorns to plead 
for mercy, but, with a sudden eflFort, overpowers the traveler, whom 
he robs and leaves by the wayside. Again he is discovered in 
prison. It is the day of execution, just prior to the dread march to 
Calvary; here once more he shows an indomitable spirit, proud to 
the very death. The final scene is upon the cross, where, witness- 
ing the sufferings and marvelous magnanimity of the dying Christ, 
he at last succumbs to the mighty power of love. 

Crouching low, but not with fear, 
A robber earthward bends his ear; 
The distant footfalls nearer grow — 
Hesitating, stumbling, slow; 
Then quicker, as the 'lated wight 
Beholds each cheerful, twinkling light ; 
Jerusalem lies at his feet. 
Anon he'll tread the lively street; 
Soon Olivet will be descended, 
Kedron crossed, his journey ended; 
And, as he nears her looming walls. 
The gladdening sight his strength recalls. 

But hark ! What awful shrieks are those 
That break the peaceful night's repose? 
Two darksome forms, like goblins grim, 
Weird antics cut in the starlight dim : 
(120) 



The Thief on the Cross. I2i 

Advancing — retreating — a parry, a thrust, 
Now having the 'vantage, now prone in the 

dust — 
Ha! See! The traveler's gleaming knife 
Has all but reached the bandit's life! 
But the groan suppressed by an iron will 
His mettle proves, though bandit still ; 
E'en wounded, yet he scowls disdain. 
The gash ignores, unheeds the pain : 
He scorns to cringe — but with a bound. 
Hurls, crushed, his victim to the ground I 



'Twas morn in ancient Palestine, 

The air was hushed, the sky serene ; 

No leaflet stirred, no warbler sang ; 

Yet nature seemed to feel a pang. 

But why ? The dewdrop sparkled still, 

Fair blossoms scented vale and hill. 

E'en the sunward sky poured forth its flood, 

Its red, inverted sea of blood. 

Ho! Barabbas, ho! Hear Pilate's decree: 
The Nazarene dieth, but thou goest free ! 
Off went the shackles, and forth from the cell 
Stepped the bold felon ; then followed the yell, 
The cry of despair, and of anguish, and pain, 
As the door of the dungeon swung to again. 



122 Ballads of the Occident. 

Yet within the walls of that living grave 
Was a bandit bad — but a bandit brave; 
He was one of the three in that prison-room 
Who hopelessly waited a terrible doom ; 
Yet he stood with his arms athwart his breast, 
And the measured rise and fall of the chest, 
With the sweeping glance of his fearless eye, 
All told of a villain that dared to die ! 

Already there floated within the gate 
Wild rumors of how they met their fate, — 
Of the earnest though haughty mien of him 
Who shuddered and writhed on an outer limb ; 
Of the One who imploringly raised his eyes, 
Who seemed to be gazing beyond the skies; 
Of another who jeered in the jaws of death. 
And cursed the law with his waning breath; 
Of the which should be first or latest to die, 
As happened the thoughts of the passers-by. 

But out on the road as ye move along, 
Behold the returning, the sated throng ! 
Press onward and upward — thrust them aside; 
Their flush of confusion shall be your guide ; 
Halt ! Rigidly, grimly, there hang the three— 
On the veriest crest of Calvary ! 
Look at the sunken the bloodshot eye 
Of the raving blasphemer about to die: 



The Thief on the Cross. 123 

Note how he gasps, how he twists with pain, 
Cursing, and cursing, yet cursing in vain ! 
And the one in the centre, say, who is He 
Whom the soldiers and rabble press round to see ? 
What legend of crime, what sign of disgrace, 
That flutters and flares at the populace? 
Come read what is writ o'er the victim's head — 
Soft ! Ye must move with a reverent tread. 

And thus run the words that your eyes peruse : 
Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the few s! 
A bandit hath seen them and read them, too, 
And he scans them again, like the thing were 

new; 
And each time the meek Monarch breathes forth 

a prayer 
It seemeth to lessen the robber's despair, 
For the proud look of courage fades out from 

his face, 
And a tender expression beams forth in its place. 
Perhaps as the soul is about to take flight. 
New scenes glad the view of its wondering sight, 
As mariners nearing a newly-found shore 
Gaze enraptured on beauties unheard of before. 

Still he dwells on the face of the crucified King, 
Nor gives heed to the shouts that derisively 
ring; 



124 Ballads of the Occident, 

On the thorn-tortured brow, on the dry, moving" 

lips, 
On the blood that adown the pale cheek slowly 

drips; 
All, all meet his gaze, and he utters a sigh, 
While a single bright tear-drop starts forth from 

his eye. 
As the pain-stricken babe to its mother reveals, 
By the language of looks, the keen anguish it 

feels, 
So the robber's sad glances now seem to impart 
To yon Jesus the weight of remorse at his heart. 

"Remember me, Lord!" Hear the bandit im- 
plore ! 

He whom life could not tempt to crave pity 
before. 

What strange fascination hath conquered the 
thief? 

What power converts to the mystic belief? 

And the merciful Jesus replies from the tree: 

"In Paradise with me this day shalt thou be!" 



Oh, love is the victor that taketh the heart, 
Than the lightning 'tis swifter, and stronger 

than art; 
In the sea, in the earth, in the heavens above. 
There dwelleth no power more mighty than love \ 



Easter Morn. 

Cloudless the day was dawning, 

Yet silent the city slept, 
And pure in the light of morning 

Gleamed the tears that the night had wept; 
An odor like incense floated 

From many a petal rare. 
And the boughs by the soft breeze smoted 

Made a rustle like wings in air. 

Fan-like the beams, rose-tinted, 

Shot up from the eastern sky, 
And the streamlet's waters glinted 

On that morn of victory. 
The night of doubt was ended. 

And sweet on the morning's breath 
Came the sound of voices blended. 

Singing of conquered death. 

Glory to God, and glory 

Be Thine, triumphant King ! 
Let man repeat the story 

Till earth with pseens shall ring. 
O Christ ! as Thou ascended. 

All free from nail and thorn. 
May we, from death defended, 

Each have our Easter Morn. 

(125) 



Nothing to Wear. 

Toby Simpson, a dealer most worthy and just, 
Slowly wended his way through the rattle and 

dust 
Of the city. He mused on the cholera scare. 
On his relative chance as a wheat or a tare 
In the prophesied raid. Then he mumbled a 

prayer. 
And each mud hole he eyed seemed a villainous 

snare, 
While his conscience said, solemnly, "Simpson, 

beware!" 

On the strength of a limited balance in cash 
He had planned for himself and his family a dash 
To the mountains, the seaside, it mattered not 

where ; 
To delay any longer was more than he dare ; 
Some relief must be had from the terrible flare 
Of the midsummer sun, which would surely impair 
The good health of Dame Simpson, now cross as 

a bear. 

'Twas quite late in July and old Sol was aglow, 
All the people had gone who had money to go 
From the city to seek a few sniffs of fresh air, 
And forget for a season their burdens of care; 
(126) 



Nothing to Wear, 127 

Then no wonder Dame Simpson was heard to 

declare 
That the Joneses looked up with an insolent 

stare, 
As she stood at her window exposed to the glare. 

But her husband that ev'ning when rising from 
tea, 

With his hands full of tickets and heart full of 
glee. 

Quite as proud as a lion could be in its lair, 

Shouted out: "To the Capes, yes, to-morrow, 
prepare, 

I've engaged jolly quarters and paid all the fare !" 

To which mother and daughters, with mock 
debonair, 

Chorused forth: "Why, dear papa, we've noth- 
ing to wear !' ' 

With a look most bewildered he clutched at a 

tray. 
For his mercantile courage was oozing away. 
And his features were grim 'neath his carroty 

hair; 
Twenty bills he had paid for goods costly and 

rare 
For those females! and now could not possibly 

spare 



128 Ballads of the Occident, 

An additional dime. Unaccustomed to swear, 
It was startling to hear him say: "Darned if it's 
fair!" 

In an eight by ten office, half sweltered with heat. 
Sat T. Simpson, the jobber. He gazed at his 

feet 
Which reposed on a desk, just in front of his 

chair, 
While his face was dejected and full of despair; 
And he owed not a cent; his accounts were all 

square — 
No, not that, but the problem of Nothing to Wear 
Was just why the poor fellow sat pondering there. 




Mortality. 

You must die, 
Spite of how you scheme or try ; 
Ghastly theme to contemplate ! 
Yet 'tis true beyond debate — 
True that patient death will wait, 
Silent wait and watch us keen, 
Ever near, but never seen. 
Be his wait though short or long, 
When he grasps his grip is strong; 
Useless shudder, bootless sigh, 

You must die; 

So must I. 

All things die, 
Though they leap or swim or fly ; 
Though they run or slowly crawl. 
Microscopic, huge or small, 
Death will strike them one and all. 
Whence life comes or where it goes 
Many guess, but no one knows; 
Nature well her secret keeps ; 
Still the Greedy Monarch reaps. 
If you ask me, I reply : 

All must die ; 

So must I. 
9 (129) 



130 Ballads of the Occident, 

Fie, O fie ! 
Since you dare not this deny, 
Why keep up the ceaseless fight, 
Brooding, hoarding, day and night? 
Why not by yourself do right? 
Followed bliss is fleet of wing; 
Caught, will disappointment bring. 
Joy that seems so far away 
lyies within your reach to-day. 
Take it ere it passes by — 

Ere we die ; 

You and I. 

Fame's a lie, 
Left to mock us when we die; 
Dead, then dead to shaft and plume. 
Banquets spread upon the tomb 
Will not light its lonely gloom. 
Praise post-mortem (joke refined) 
Flatters those we leave behind. 
Place the laurels on the brow ; 
Give your gifts, your heart-love now, 
Ere the golden chance slips by — 

Ere you die ; 

As must I. 



General U. S. Grant. 

Go search the annals of the human race, 
Go hear the legends that the heathen tell, 
And learn that hist'ry, sacred or profane. 
Records no hero like the mighty Grant. 
Columbia proudly claims him as her own 
And rears her monuments with love and pride ; 
But millions scattered o'er the face of earth, 
And millions yet unborn, will share that claim: 
Who serves mankind is deemed the friend of man. 
And nations nationalize him in their hearts. 
Since that first famous Battle of the Kings, 
Of which we read in holy writ, no sword 
K'er leaped from scabbard in a juster war 
Than that which made our country free indeed, 
Which, until then, was only free in name. 
The bond of unity that Washington 
To us bequeathed. Grant's loyal arm maintained; 
Emancipation of the dusky race 
By Lincoln's heaven-inspired pen, by Grant's 
Unsullied sword was made complete ! 

How well 
He proved the potency of equal rights, 
And how he dignified Democracy 
The monarchs of the world have told, thrice told, 
In homage, hospitality and love. 
(131) 



132 Ballads of the Occident 

No land is free where dwells a slave : to-day 
In all our land there dwells no slave, and we 
Are free, forever free ! 

^^Let 7is have peace. y 
Clasp hands across the ashes of the dead. 
No, no; Grant is not dead, he cannot die; 
The body is the worn-out coat of mail, 
That with his sword and shield the warrior casts 
Aside when life's campaign is o'er, and home, 
Eternal home, is reached. 

He is not dead 
Whose power still exists; and Grant will live 
A life of immortality while yet 
Our starry banner floats for liberty. 
Which, thanks to God, will be forevermore. 



Faith. 

Beyond the darkest clouds 

The silent stars are gleaming; 
And e'en though lost to sight. 

The sun is ever beaming : 
Take heart, O soul, in sorrow, 

Though gloomy be thy way. 
The Master-hand still guides thee 

As safe by night as doy. 



The Dying Child. 

It is midnight. Hark! the old clock whirs: 

'Tis striking now the solemn tones 
That mark the advent of another day. 

I've been dozing — sh ! — my baby stirs — 
Ah, how the little darling moans ! 

There, pet, let mamma kiss the pain away. 
All alone ! Thou God, in mercy 
Spare, oh, spare my precious child ! 

Weary watching: hours ne'er seemed so long. 

How dry and hot its throbbing brow. 
How restless moves its tiny, pillowed head : 

What, awake, love! Ma^nma sing a song? 
Why, yes, sweet child, I'll sing it now, 
So close your eyes and nestle in your bed. 

"Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber, 
Holy angels guard thy bed." 

Day is breaking : far off gleams the dawn : 

Perhaps I now may steal some rest, 
For baby sleeps as calmly as of old. 

I feel so strangely wretched and forlorn : 
A weight seems bearing on my breast; 

I'll kiss my angel first, and then — how cold! 
Oh, my child, my poor dead baby I 
Father, let Thy will be done. 
(133) 



General Robert E. Lee.* 

lyCt glory's wreath rest on the warrior's tomb, 
Let monumental shaft surmount his grave, 
For all the world yields homage to the brave. 
And heroes dead have vanquished ev'ry foe. 
The earth is strewn with storied slabs which tell 
That manliness is born of every clime. 
Bach sword is drawn to guard a seeming right, 
Each blow is struck to crush a fancied wrong; 
For war proclaims sincere consistenc}^ 
And victory but seals just heaven's decree. 
O Western World, what noble men are thine, 
How brave their hearts, how steadfast to the end ! 
The pride of empire is of valor born, 
The soldier shapes the destiny of man. 
Look, then, ye tyrant kings that rule by fear ! 
Behold, ye nations of the earth ! Our sons 
Are warriors born : Lee was our son ; he sleeps — 
Our son, a soldier, an American. 



* This poem was forwarded to the Lee Monument Association by 
General Buckner, in the following letter :— 

Frankfort, Ky., May 15, 1890. 
To President I^ee Monument Association, Richmond, Va. 

Dear Sir:— I enclose a communication from Mr. Geo. M. Vickers, 
of Philadelphia, who was a soldier in the U. S. Army during the 
Civil War, transmitting a poem written by himself in honor of the 
memory of our greatest Southern leader. It was my purpose to 

(134) 



Minnie. 

When the wild March winds were blowing, 
When the snow lay drifted high, 

First I heard your infant crowing, 
First beheld your dark brown eye. 

Storms have raged and snows have drifted, 
Vanished, too, 'neath sunny skies 

Many times since first I lifted, 

Hugged and kissed our tiny prize. 

Shield, O I^ord, from harm our treasure, 
Guide her with Thy holy love ; 

Mingle with each earthly pleasure 
Joy that has its source above. 

May she emulate her mother ; 

Meet with friends where'er she goes; 
Know no storm in life — no other 

Worse than March's winds and snows. 



\iave handed this poem to you in person, if I had been able to be 
present on the occasion of the unveiling of the statue of General 
Lee. 

As official engagements will probably preclude the possibility 
of ray attendance, I do not feel at liberty longer to withhold from 
you a literary production which does honor alike to the memory of 
the great American soldier and to the patriotism of the writer of 
the poem. Respectfully, S. B. Buckner. 

(135) 



Life's Battle. 

St. John xvi. 33. 

What life hath not sorrow, 
What soul but doth crave 

A bliss for the morrow — 
Oft found in the grave? 

Who feels his heart beating, 
Who heaves forth a sigh. 

But knows that life's fleeting- 
Eternity's nigh? 

Gay, thoughtless, or solemn, 

Humanity plods, 
Till reacheth the column 

The City of Sods: 
There brave ones shall wither 

No less than the shy ; 
All roads lead us thither, 

We journey to die. 

Yet after the aching 

Comes soul-soothing peace; 
When daylight is breaking. 

Then night-terrors cease. 
Have faith in thy Maker, 

lyOok sometimes above — 
Thou' It then be partaker 

Of Hope and of I^ove. 
(136) 



Glory, 137 



Press on weary mortal 

And be of good cheer, 
For at the bright portal 

Doth Jesus appear, 
While hosts are attending 

To light thy dark way, 
From danger defending 

Till dawneth the day. 



Glory. 

Already the tombs are crumbling, 
Already the weeds have grown. 

And lost is the grave and level 
Of many a brave unknown. 

Oh, glory's an empty promise, 

A myth and a gilded lie ; 
It lures but to death the living. 

And vanishes when they die. 

The sleek and the well-fed coward 
That far from the battle keeps, 

Gains more of the woild's bright harvest 
Than bravery ever reaps. 



The Moon. 

Serenely, O moon, thou art beaming to-night, 
Tracking the sea with thy silvery light; 
Piercing the forest, thy beautiful rays 
Are patching the ground in fantastical ways. 

On city, on hamlet, on palace and hut, 

On the far-stretching plain, in the deep mount- 
ain cut, 

Thy mellow beams softly on all alike fall ; 

O queen of the night, thou hast homage from 
all: 

From the glistening dew, from the true lover's 
sigh, 

From the cricket's shrill voice and the katy- 
did's cry; 

Thy heart-soft' ning power all races have felt; 

To thy soothing appeal the most callous must 
melt. 

O mute sympathizer, invoker of tales, 

A fleet of heart secrets each night to thee sails. 

To the shipwrecked at sea, when the storm 

clears away 
And calm night succeeds the wild, boisterous day, 
(138) 



The Moon. 139 

All huddled on raft, or faint clinging to spar, 
There's a hope in thy beams that no danger can 
mar. 

When red in the east thou ascendest the sky, 
And thy disc meets the half-naked savage's eye, 
He pauses, and feels as he views thy bright light 
That a Greater than he is displaying His might. 
Bre since by Omnipotence whirled into space. 
Thou hast gladdened the night with thy radiant 
face. 

To nations long dead, unrecorded b}^ man, 
Thou wast familiar when first they began, 
Through their ages of splendor, their waning 

away, 
Till their last mould'ring relic succumbed to 

decay. 

And so, till Jehovah's dread voice bids thee stay, 
And the night is absorbed by Eternity's day, 
Thou shalt in thine orbit thy mission pursue, 
A bright silver ship in an ocean of blue. 



The Rusty Sword. 

In a little roadside cottage, half hid by shrubs 

and vines, 
A woman, old and feeble, on a faded couch 

reclines; 
Her face is sweet, but sorrow has left its imprint 

there. 
And her voice tells not the burden that her God 

hath bid her bear. 

As I drink the limpid water from the homely, 

dripping gourd, 
I note on the wall before me a naked, rusty 

sword. 
I glance at the aged woman, and speaking she 

bows her head : 
*' 'Twas worn by a gallant soldier, for many a 

long year dead. 

"One day, sir, I was looking where the road 

winds over there, 
Wishing the war was over and breathing a 

mother's prayer — 
I saw a wagon coming, and soldiers, all moving 

slow; 
They were bringing my boy home, wounded — 

ah ! it's many a year ago. 
(140) 



Christinas Bells. 141 

"I buried him there, by those willows — as you 

pass you can see his grave ; 
Oh, stranger, my child was a comfort, but his 

heart it was true and brave!" 
Watching the pearls drop downward over her 

aged face, 
I mount, and I ride in silence away from the 

lonely place. 

But now I have reached the willows, and I leap 

to the shady ground; 
I gather some wa3"side flowers to throw on his 

mossy mound. 
I care not if Grant has led him, nor if he has 

fought with lyce ; 
I am an American soldier — and so was he. 



Christmas Bells. 

Ring on, ye bells of Christmas, 
Herald the joyous day ! 

Ring for the loved ones near us, 
For the wanderers, far away. 

O Christmas bells, give courage 
To hearts that would do right; 

Like the tender, Lowly Teacher, 
Tell us of love to-night ! 



The New Rosette * 

Let us sing a song 

That all may hear; 
Sound the death of wrong, 

The knell of fear; 
For in this cordial clasp of hands 
America united stands: 
The new rosette 

Of Blue and Gray, 
Without regret, 
Is worn to-day. 

Fire the signal gun, 

Proclaim our creed; 
Liberty has won, 

And we are freed; 
Our country's creed is Liberty, 
And Freedom shall our watchword be ; 
The new rosette 

Of Blue and Gray, 
Love's amulet. 
Shall be to-day. 



* Rendered at the reunion of the Union and Confederate Veterans 
at Washington, September i6, 1896, by Miss I/)uise Nanette Orudorf, 
of Baltimore. 

(142) 



The New Rosette, 143 

Ring the bells with pride, 

The brave are here; 
Heroes true and tried, 

And each a peer ; 
Their deeds and valor e'er shall be 
Our caveat on land and sea. 
The new rosette 

Of Blue and Gray, 
A pledge, a threat. 
Is worn to-day. 

Give the armies praise. 

Of Grant, of Lee, 
Shafts in honor raise, 

That all may see; 
Proclaim that as they did, so we 
Would do and die for lyiberty ; 
The new rosette 

Of Blue and Gray 
Bids none forget 
Their dead to-day. 

I^et the broadsides roar 

From ship to ship; 
Shout your cheers from shore, 

I^et colors dip; 
Brave Farragut, Buchanan, too, 
Showed what our gallant tars can do. 



1 44 Ballads of the Occident, 

The new rosette 
Of Blue and Gray, 

Shall homage get 
From all to-day. 

Give thanks to God, 
That we are one; 
He withholds the rod, 

Our strife is done; 
One flag alone shall o'er us wave, 
One Country, or for each a grave. 
The new rosette 

Of Blue and Gray, 
With love's tears wet, 
Is worn to-day. 




Only a Pension Pauper. 

"Look out!" Too late, the horses 

Trembling above him stood, 
While the frightened, white- faced driver 

Was doing the best he could. 

I stooped, and gently drew him 

From the mud where he groaning lay, 

And I heard a man in the carriage 
To the waiting driver say : 

* ' 'Tis only a pension pauper, 

Drive on, why tarry here?" 
Then a crack of the whip made answer 

To the master's haughty sneer. 

The carriage away was driven, 
But the injured man remained 

On the sidewalk, pale and bleeding, 
With his clothes all torn and stained. 

On his coat lapel was a button 

Of bronze, which no wealth can win, 

And it told of a heart's devotion, 
Of war, and its awful din. 
lo (145) 



146 Ballads of the Occident, 

Yet the haughty man in his carriage 

But spoke as full many speak, 
And forgot, ere he reached his office, 

Both the man and his piercing shriek. 

But with all his bold defiance, 

He would rather have begged his food, 

Than one instant have stood in battle 
Where for hours that ' ' pauper' ' stood. 

When I think of the early 'Sixties, 

Of the faces so fresh and fair, 
Of the rosy cheeks so youthful 

Of the flowing, glossy hair; 

When I see our sons and daughters 

That our comfort are to-day, 
'Tis only the sight seen over 

Of an olden, bygone day. 

And yet, if to-day 'twere needed. 
Our boys would be just as brave, 

Though it cOvSt them a life's ambition, 

Though they marched to a soldier's grave. 

But neither the life's ambition. 

Nor death would be all they'd give, 

The bitterest fate to many 

Would be to be spared to live — 



A Soldiery's Offering. 147 

To live when all life's best chances 

Forever have passed away ; 
To live as ''a pension pauper," 

Neglected, and old, and gray. 



A Soldier's Offering. 

The laurel wreath of glory 

That decks the soldier's grave, 
Is but the finished story, — 

The record of the brave ; 
And he who dared the danger, 

Who battled well and true, 
To honor was no stranger, 

Though garbed in gray or blue. 

Go, strip your choicest bowers. 

Where blossoms sweet abound, 
Then scatter free your flowers 

Upon each moss-grown mound. 
Though shaded by the North's tall pine 

Or South' s palmetto tree, 
I^et sprays that soldiers' graves entwine, 

A soldier's tribute be. 



A Gentleman. 

The appellation "gentleman'* 

Too frequently is bought, 
But how io be a gentleman 

Is very seldom taught. 

In vain the tailor's subtle skill, 

In vain the barber's art; 
They cannot give one attribute, 

One polished grace impart. 

A man may be a gentleman 

Though clad in homespun stuff, 

And prove himself by word and deed 
A diamond in the rough. 

No contact with the vulgar mind 

Can cloud his lustre o'er, 
But like the lapidary's touch 

'Twill make him shine the more. 

At home, abroad, to high, to low, 

He always is the same; 
By this you'll know your gentleman 

Is worthy of the name. 

(148) 



The Old Canteen. 

Of all the faithful friends we had 

On weary march, when gay or sad; 

Of all the comforts ever nigh 

When throats were parched, when lips were dry, 

Oh, comrades, none there was, I ween, 

More welcome than 

Our Old Canteen. 

When powder grimed our faces black, 
'Mid cannon's roar and rifle's crack; 
When charging brave the foe to meet. 
When falling back from grim defeat; 
One thing we had on which to lean, 
Our bosom friend, 

The Old Canteen. 

How oft the wounded' s lips have pressed 
The old tin spout whose water blest ; 
How oft when on the battle-field 
The soldier's eyes in death were sealed, 
A smile upon his face was seen — 
Asleep, beside 

His Old Canteen. 
(149) 



150 Ballads of the Occident, 

Ah, comrades, if there is one thing 
Which memories from the past can bring, 
One symbol that in time's swift flow 
Binds hearts to friends of long ago, 
'Tis this — enwreathed with laurels green — 
The soldier's friend, 

The Old Canteen. 



True Love. 

Since love is pure and holy, 

Unsought to mortals given ; 
Since God is love, and angels 

Are ruled by love in heaven ; 
How can true love be sinful. 

Or in false hearts abide. 
When God Himself hath made it, 

When for its sake He died? 

No, no, I'll not believe it! 

Life's sweetest joy is this — 
This love, that all surpasses. 

This goal of human bliss: 
The only cloud love brings us. 

Its only bitter pain. 
That leaves the heart a desert, 

Is when we love in vain. 



Twilight. 

In solitude at twilight hour, 

Our natures softer grow. 
And thought reverts, with wondrous power, 

To scenes of long ago. 

The solemn whisp'ring of the wind 

Seems tuned to lull our care, 
And plays — unto the dreamy mind — 

Some half-forgotten air. 

Perhaps remorse may cause a sigh 

To 'scape the guilty breast, 
As phantoms of the past flit by 

And mar its wonted rest. 

But, oh, when early love appears, 

Just as we thought it then ! 
We press it to the heart it sears, 

As though it lived again. 

'Tis then the lost "what might have been" 

Steals back to mock our fate. 
And rouse the wish — which is but sin — 

When wishing comes too late. 
(151) 



152 Ballads of the Occident, 

O mystic hour ! with visions fraught 
Of forms and days gone by 

Why these sad longings — all unsought- 
Say, canst thou tell me why ? 



The Dear Old Sabbath. 

Hold fast to the dear old Sabbath, 

To the day of peaceful rest ; 
lyook back to the days of childhood 

That its tranquil glories blest; 
Hold fast to its quiet pleasures, 

All its sweet traditions save, 
For the sake of the weary living. 

And the memories of the grave. 

Hold fast to the dear old Sabbath, 

That is neared, like a verdant isle 
On the week's dull sea of toiling. 

With a thankful, happy smile. 
One day give the Great Creator, 

Be thy creed whate'er it may; 
For the sake of human freedom 

Keep the dear old Sabbath day. 



Go Fan Yourself. 

When moist with perspiration, 

When the mercury is high, 
When stung to aggravation, 

When your tongue and lips are dry, 
Then fretting 's worse than folly. 

Rather let this be your rule — 
Shake off all melancholy, 

Go and fan yourself — keep cool. 

Go fan yourself, cease growling. 

Just remember who you are ; 
Stop snarling, snapping, scowling 

It will pay you better far. 
If toiling melts your collars, 

Recollect that life's a school — 
That all the lucky scholars 

Win the prize by keeping cool. 

Go fan yourself when heated. 

Set the motto to a tune. 
And let it be repeated 

Though December 'tis or June; 
Since mortal man is fickle 

And his brother oft doth fool, 
Just keep the saw in pickle. 

Go and fan yourself — keep cool. 
(153) 



The Palmetto and the Pine. 

While the months to years are fleeting 

lyike a river's ceaseless flow, 
And the landmarks old grow dimmer 

In the distant long ago, 
Let us glance once more behind us, 

Where our battle days were seen, 
Where our blood, like holly berries, 

Sprinkled thick the grassy green. 

There, in rifle pit, on ramparts, 

Or upon the open field, 
Come the visions of battalions 

That would rather die than yield — 
Come the stately forms of vessels 

With their crews of sailors brave. 
Whose memorial crests of glory 

Are the white caps of the wave. 

Once these men were happy, peaceful, 

Till that bloody war, and then — 
When it ended they turned homeward. 

From their dead to peace again. 
Why they fought, who lost, who triumphed, 

Who was wrong, or who was right. 
Matters not ; they were our brothers. 

And were not afraid to fight. 
(154) 



Jehovah. 155 

* Neath the fairest flag that flutters 

Under heaven's 2,z\xr^ dome 
Dwell these warriors and their children 

In sweet Freedom's chosen home. 
In his heart each holds a welcome 

For the soldier at his door, 
And he never stops to question 

Which the uniform he wore. 

We were soldiers, only soldiers 

Of the nation let us be. 
Let us meet and greet as comrades 

Though we fought with Grant or Lee; 
Let us form a noble order 

With sweet Freedom for our shrine, 
And for each enwreathe a token — 

The Palmetto and the Pine. 



Jehovah. 

The splendor of Jehovah's work 

In ev'ry clime is seen. 
Though at the barren, icy North, 

Or 'mid the Tropics green: 

The Power that made what we adore. 

All beauteous things that be. 
Hath power to wrought still grander scenes 

To greet our souls when free ! 



The Mother-in-Law. 

While hearts are gay and tributes flow 
In praise of those whose worth we know; 
While hands are clasped and lips are pressed 
And friendly welcome greets each guest, 
Forget not that sweet womanhood 
Whose love the test of years has stood, 
Whose only wish is for our good — 

The Mother-in-Iyaw. 

And so each mother, kind and true 
Whose tender voice some child once knew, 
Whose tired arms have oft caressed 
The infant nestling on her breast, 
May one day from her darling part; 
Then two lives will entwine her heart, 
Then she becomes just what thou art — 
A Mother-in-Law. 



A Kiss. 

A kiss is the soul of eloquence. 

Love's sweet, though brief, refrain; 

The true heart's golden recompense, 
In sorrow, peace or pain. 
(156) 



The New Year. 

O welcome, welcome, bright New Year, 
With joy we see thy dawn appear! 
Farewell, Old Year of bliss and pain, 
For never shall we meet again : 
Go join the ages past and gone. 
To-day we greet the New Year's morn. 
Ring merrily each gladsome bell; 
Let hearts with hope and pleasure swell ; 
Forget the words so harshly spoken, 
Forgive the vows so coldly broken ; 
The Old Year's dead, the New is born; 
Let smiles and love its birth adorn; 
Begin the onward march anew 
With earnest effort, brave and true; 
To you, while time and life are fleeting, 
May each year bring a joyous greeting: 
Farewell the Old, all hail the New, 
And a happy prosperous year to you! 



(157) 



February. 

Under the drifts of virgin snow, 
Many a bud is hiding low, 

Waiting the voice of spring; 
Soon will the sap begin to flow 
Bearing its fleet of leaves to blow; 

Soon will the blue-bird sing. 

Whistle ye winds, while yet ye may, 
Toss ye the barren boughs in play. 

Beautiful spring is nigh: 
Speed thee, old winter, oh speed away ! 
Go with the skate and merry sleigh ! 

Now must we say good-bye. 



The Cynic. 

Life is a mystery past finding out. 
And faith in God has less of hope than doubt. 
Men bow andsa}^, Good Providence is right, 
And try in gloom to find the sunbeam bright ; 
Yet since the day when thoughtful Adam fell 
Has calmest reason taught us to rebel. 
And mortal judgment of the chast'ning rod 
Makes monstrous demon of the living God. 
So would I bend to That which ruleth all, 
Nor, like proud Satan, think, and fall. 
(158) 



Little Miss Lou. 

Leisurely walking the meadows through, 
Gathering daisies and violets blue 

Comes Little Miss Lou. 
Empty her basket swings on her arm, 
Free is her mind from a thought of harm, 
And, somehow, her face has a power to charm, 

She seems so true, 

This Little Miss Lou. 

But, sometimes (of course 'tis 'twixt me and you), 
She looks very cute, even saucy, too. 

Does Little Miss Lou. 
She clings to the daisies held in her hand, 
As proud as a queen in a foreign land, 
And her eyes say so plain that you'll understand, 

**Well, who are you? 
I'm Little Miss Lou!" 

Far in the far away years to come. 
Perhaps she may sit in her ow^n wee home, 

A matronly Lou. 
And maybe she'll then at supper preside, 
Or call for the children that playful hide, 
For ev'ry young girl may become a bride; 

There are lots that do, 

My Little Miss Lou. 
(159) 



i6o Ballads of the Occident 

Her basket is empty, 'tis light as air, 
But soon 'twill be heavy and hard to bear; 

Poor Little Miss Lou. 
Yet bravely she'll carry it safely back. 
Over the self-same meadow track : 
The strength she possesses, and has the knack; 

For 'tis nothing new 

To Little Miss Lou. 

Thus may the young maiden her path pursue, 
With never a sigh, nor a thing to rue. 

Dear Little Miss Lou. 
Courage gives hope to the young and old, 
And faith makes the weakest of hearts grow bold, 
But virtue is better than gems or gold ; 

'Twill carry you through, 

Sweet Little Miss Lou. 




Aunt Polly Green. 

At last the cottage was rented 

That vacant had stood so long, 
And the silent gloom of its chambers 

Gave way to mirth and song. 
Ever since the sheriff sold it, 

And poor Dobson moved away. 
Not a soul had crossed the threshold 

Till the strangers came in May ; 
Then the mold on the steps of marble 

Was scoured and well rinsed off, 
And the packed dead leaves of autumn 

Were thrown from the dry pump trough ; 
And the windows were washed and polished, 

And the paints and floors were scrubbed, 
While the knobs and hearthstone brasses 

Were cleaned and brightly rubbed. 

Now right across the turnpike 

Lived old Aunt Polly Green, 
And through the window lattice 

The cottage could be seen. 
There wasn't a bed or mattress. 

There wasn't a thing untied. 
Not a box, a trunk, or a bundle, 

But what Aunt Polly spied. 
II (i6i) 



i62 Ballads of the Occident. 

Such high-toned, stylish neighbors 

The village had never known; 
And the family had no children — 

The folks were all full-grown ; 
That is, there were two young ladies, 

The husband and his wife, 
''And she," said old Aunt Polly, 

"Hain't seen a bit of life." 

And so Aunt Polly watched them, 

Oft heard the husband sa)^ 
*' Good-bye, my love," when leaving 

His wife but for the day ; 
And when he came at sunset 

She saw them eager run. 
Striving the wife and daughters 

To be the favored one; 
And as Aunt Polly, peeping, 

Beheld his warm embrace, 
And noted well the love-light 

That lit the mother's face, 
She shook her head and muttered, 

"Them two hain't long been wed, 
A pity for his first wife. 

Who's sleepin' cold and dead. 

* *The poor thing died heart-broken. 
Neglected by that brute, 



Atmt Polly Green. 163 

Who, soon as she was buried, 

Began his new love suit, 
I know it," said old Aunt Polly, 

*'I see the hull thing through; 
How kin he so forget her, 

Who alwa5's loved him true?" 
And tears of woman's pity 

Streamed down Aunt Polly's face, 
As in her mind she pictured 

The dead wife's resting-place. 
'To think," sobbed good Aunt Polly, 

*'How the daughters, too, behave, 
When their poor and sainted mother 

Fills a lone, forgotten grave." 

One day when old Aunt Polly 

Sat knitting, almost asleep. 
When the shadows under the woodbine 

Eastward began to creep, 
A rosy-cheeked, brown-eyed maiden 

Walked up to the kitchen door. 
Where never a soul from the cottage 

Had dared to walk before : 
'Tis true that she walked on tip-toe, 

And cautiously peered around ; 
But she smiled and courtesied sweetly 

When the one she sought was found : 



164 Ballads of the Occident, 

^'I rapped on the front door knocker, 
And wondered where you could be, 
So I hope you will pardon my boldness 
In walking around to see. " 

''Boldness," said Polly, rising. 

And fixing her glasses straight, 
"Boldness ain't nothin' now-'days, 

To some, at any rate. 
Sit down in that cheer and tell me 

Who 'twas that sent you here; 
And tell me how long ago, Miss, 

You lost your mother dear. ' ' 
The girl stood still, astonished, 

She knew not what to say, 
She wished herself in the cottage 

That stood across the way. 
*'Now don't stand there a sulkin', 

Have a little Christian shame, 
Even if she is a bold one 

That bears your father's name." 

*' Madam, or Miss," said the maiden, 
''There's surely a great mistake, 

Or else I must be dreaming — ' ' 

'*No you hain't, you're wide awake; 

I blame your bold stepmother 
For learnin' you this deceit; 



Aimt Polly Green, 165 

Now answer me true the question 

Which again I must repeat — 
When did you lose your mother, 

And of what did the poor child die, 
And wasn't her pale face pinched like, 

And didn't she often sigh? 
Horrors! jist look at the heathen, 

A laughin' right in my face, 
When speakin' about her mother. 

In her last lone restin' place. 

You say you was sent to invite me 

To the cottage over the way, 
That to-night's the celebration 

Of your mother's marriage day. 
That this is the silver weddin', 

Of that young and frisky thing, 
That for five and twenty summers 

She's wore her plain gold ring? 
Well, looks they are deceivin', 

Why her hair's not one mite gray. 
And her cheek is like a lily 

Gathered for Easter Da3\ 
An' will I come? Yes, dearie; 

But let me your pardon crave, 
For I've been like an old fool weepin', 

A mournin' an empty grave." 



Fidelity. 

The purest, best gem in the crown of our youth, 
That outshines all the rest, is the diamond Truth ; 
For Truth is Fidelity, ever the same, 
Though winning approval, or bearing the blame. 

Be faithful, be true, never think of the cost. 
Lest the work of a life in a moment be lost; 
Though years must be spent to gain honor and 

fame, 
How quick the transition from glory to shame ! 

Be true to yourself and you're faithful to all; 
If Truth's your foundation you never can fall, 
For Truth lives forever, though buried from 

sight, 
And will rise to defend you, untarnished aud 

bright. 

Have pride in the thought that you dare to be 

true, 
Let Truth be your armor what path you pursue; 
Though the dog is Fidelity's emblem, you can 
Show the world that fidelity dwells in a man ! 



(i66) 



November. 

The rosy-red apples are peeping through 

The clustering leaves of bright gold and green, 
And snowy-white frost on the grass is seen 

Where yesterday glistened the pearly dew; 

The wreaths of blue smoke that so gently rise 
Above the wee cottage that decks the moor, 
But tell that the warm, sunny days are o'er, 

And bid us prepare for the wintry skies. 

The flowers are gone, and the birds flit by, 
Fast journeying on to a warmer clime. 
While out from the leaves and the frosty rime 

A beautiful fern spray is peeping shy ; 

The rows of ripe corn that in stacks appear, 
The tinkle of bells from the sheep at play ; 
And throngs of young nutters, with shouts so 
gay, 

Proclaim that November at last is here. 



(167) 



Lyric Poems. 



(169) 



LYRIC POEMS* 



The King's Kiss. 

A king rode forth one summer morn, his vast 

domain to see ; 
Through fields of wheat and fields of corn, rode 

on his majesty: 
Quoth he, ''A mighty king am I; whate'er I 

say must be, 
Por none there lives that dare deny a favor asked 

by me." 

The king in search of rest and shade, dismounted 

in a dell, 
Where, drawing water, stood a maid beside a 

mossy well ; 
With courtly bow the thirsty king, the proffered 

draught received. 
And as he drank, a gallant thing his royal mind 

conceived. 

*'Fairgirl, " said he, ''those lips of thine were 

surely made to kiss. 
And fain I'd press them close to mine, refuse me 

not that bliss." 

(171) 



172 Ballads of the Occident. 

"No, no," the blushing lass replied, "no kiss 

you'll get from me, 
For I'm a true and promised bride, to one who's 

far at sea. ' ' 

"lam the King," the monarch said, '*must I 
be disobeyed?" 

The maiden slowly dropped her head, and trem- 
bled, sore afraid: 

Then looking up with marble face, and wet but 
brave blue eye, 

Said she, "Bre thus my troth debase, within the 
well I die!" 

''Enough," the conquered sovereign cried, '*this 
ring in honor wear, 

For truly have I found a bride, as pure as she 
is fair." 

The king rode off a wiser man than oft is mon- 
arch's lot, 

And deemed that naught was sweeter than the 
kiss he never got. 



Names Upon the Sand. 

We sat beneath the drooping willows, 

Where we oft had sat before, 
Gazing on the foamy billows 

As they dashed upon the shore; 
Tender were the words we'd spoken, 

When I saw her tiny hand 
Trace within a ring unbroken 

Both our names upon the sand. 

The golden sun was slowly sinking, 

Twilight gathered o'er the sea, 
Still we lingered, fondly thinking, 

Dreaming of the days to be — 
Future joys in fancy reaping — 

Thus we spent the happy day ; 
But the tide came onward sweeping 

And our names were washed away. 

Though years have passed, I wander lonely, 

List'ning to the ocean's roar. 
Sighing for one sweet face only, 

Lost to me for evermore : 
Once my poor heart fondly cherished 

Hopes again to press her hand, 
But in vain ; alas, they perished 

Like our names upon the sand. 
(173) 



The Helmsman. 

When I look down at the binnacle light, 

Sing Mary, O my bonny queen, 
Or cast my eyes on the gathering night. 

My face is sober then, I ween; 
For then I think of Casco Bay, 
Of fields and lanes long miles away. 
And 'tis then your form and smiles appear 
And the wheelman then forgets to steer ; 
Then mates and master quickly cry : 

O ho, there ! 
O ho, there, wheelman, mind your eye ! 

When billows leap 'neath the bellowing gale, 
Sing Mary, O my bonny queen. 

And aloft all hands are short' ning sail, 
My mind beholds a fairer scene, 

For, darling, then I think of you, 

Forgot is ship, forgot is crew, 

And the rain-drop seems your parting tear, 

And the wheelman then forgets to steer ; 

Then mates and master quickly cry : 
O ho, there! 

O ho, there, wheelman, mind your eye! 
(174) 



The Helmsman. 175 

But when at anchor we happen to lay, 

Sing Mary, O my bonny queen ; 
When reached at last is the sheltering bay, 

The hills all blooming fresh and green, 
Then quickly am I at your side, 
O Mary, sweetheart, true and tried. 
And the day, dear love, I hope is near. 
When your sailor will no longer steer ; 
Then mates and master cannot cry : 
O ho, there ! 
O ho, there, wheelman ! 
O ho, there, wheelman, mind your eye! 




The Captain's Story. 

'Tis 3^ears, little pet, since it happened, 

Long j^ears, and full many a day ; 
And the story began on a morning 

When Kitty was raking the hay : 
The meadows were sweet with the flowers' per- 
fume, 

And the birds sang their matins so gay ; 
Oh, 'twas then, at her side, some one lost his 
poor heart 

When Kitty was raking the hay ! 

Your eyes they are bright, little darling; 

Some day a gay bride you will be ; 
And your true heart and hand will be won, love, 

But never, ah, never by me ! 
For down in the meadows lie buried the hopes 

That were fair as a sweet summer day, 
And they died with a kiss in a moment of bliss 

When Kitty was raking the hay. 

There's little to tell of the story. 

It ends in the same olden way : 
A mistake, and two lives ever parted, 

Two warm hearts forever astray ! 
(176) 



The Captain's Story. 177 

Your round rosy cheeks and your dark rippling 
hair 
But recall a dream long passed away ; 
Ah! there'll never again be such moments as 
then — 
When Kitty was raking the hay. 



Words Beyond Recall. 

Oft words are spoken, 

Words we would forget, 
Whose sad remembrance 

Only brings regret; 
Oft hearts are wounded 

By the things we say ; 
Oft words we utter 

Steal life's hopes away. 

Go, if forgiveness 

Still you may obtain, 
Spare needless anguish, 

Spare bitter pain ; 
For, of all sorrows 

That our lives befall, 
May this be spared you — 

Words beyond recall. 
12 



The Fisherman's Bride. 

With a smile and a kiss we said good-bye 

At our little cottage door, 
And the rising red sun lit up the sky 

And made gold the rocky shore: 
Then I stood and I watched the snowy sail 

As it faded far away, 
And I thought how he risked the reef and gale 

And for me toiled ev'ry day. 

On that day came a stranger tall and grand 

Who it seems had lost his way ; 
And I gave him a drink with trembling hand, 

But a word I could not say. 
Oh, he bow'd like a gallant knight of old 

As I pointed o'er the lea; 
And the warm summer air grew damp and cold. 

And the sun shone dim to me. 

'Twas at night, in the storm, all chill and wet, 

That my fisher came again. 
And the hearth it glowed bright, his chair was 
set. 
And our meal swung on the crane — 
(178) 



The Pishermaii's Bride. 179 

But to save me from death I could not smile, 
Though with all my soul I tried — 

And he gave me a kiss, all free from guile, 
Me, his vain and foolish bride. 

Heigh-ho, me; how false, how fair the sea! 

But such thoughts I must put aside. 
Heigh-ho me; at work I, too, should be! 

'Tis the lot of a fisher's bride. 




The Maiden's Wish. 

Once in years gone by we wandered 

'Mid the tall and waving rye, 
And the bright young moon was beaming 

In the far off western sky. 
Oh, how sweetly then you told me 

Foolish me, a wish to make, 
And to keep the wish a secret, 

Lest the mystic spell would break ! 

Oh, how earnest o'er my shoulder. 

Trembling, glanced I to the right 
Where the crescent in her beauty 

Shed a soft and silv'ry light! 
How I thought the wish I whispered 

To your heart was known so well, 
That I only smiled with pleasure 

When you told me not to tell ! 

Oft in dreams again I wander 

'Mid the tall and waving rye. 
Where a bright young moon is beaming 

In the far off western sky; 
But I waken lone and sadly, 

For 'tis then I think of you, 
Of a wish my poor heart treasures 

But that never yet came true. 
(i8o) 



By the Old Cathedral. 

I stood by the elms that gently swayed 
Near the old cathedral door; 
And the deep-toned knell 
Of the vesper bell 
To my soul a message bore : 
It seemed like a voice from the dying day, 
And soft as the slanting sunset ray, 
That full on the gray stone portal played. 
Then a dreamy rapture o'er me stole, 
And I heard the organ's thunder roll 
As the surf of a far-off sea. 
''Ave Maria!" 

And the bell rang; 
And the choir sang, 
*'Ave Maria!" 
And the Master drew near to me. 

I knelt on the leaves all dead and sere, 
And I heard the wind's low sigh, 
And a rustling sound 
On the leafy ground, 
As of some one passing by : 
I reached for the hem of the garment fair. 
But only the gloaming mist was there. 
(i8i) 



1 82 Ballads of the Occident. 

The sun had gone down and night was near; 
'Twas a season of calm and holy bliss, 
And it came like a loving mother's kiss, 
And it went like a sad farewell. 
''Ave Maria!" 

And the bell rang; 
And the choir sang, 
"Ave Maria!" 
And I woke from the mystic spell. 




Beautiful Trees of the Wayside. 

Beautiful trees of the wayside, 

Blest are their ample boughs green, 
Casting their kind, cooling shadows, 

Lending a charm to each scene ; 
Cherish them, guard them from danger, 

Think of the good they will do; 
Kach one of love is a token 

An emblem of hearts that are true. 
Beautiful trees ! Beautiful trees ! 
We their friends will be. 

I^et us plant trees by the wayside 

Gladly our part let us do ; 
Make fair the pathways for others 

While we life's journey pursue; 
Each lend a hand that is helping; 

Here, 'neath the broad heavens free, 
I^et us bestow on our country 

The gift that a blessing may be. 

Beautiful trees! Beautiful trees! 
We their friends will be. 

Under the green, waving branches, 
Deep in the woodland and grove, 

Hark how the birds trill their praises, 
List to their sweet songs of love ! 
(183) 



184 Ballads of the Occident, 

Beautiful trees of the forest, 

Trees of the garden and field, 
Spare them from needless destruction, 
That each may its fair bounty yield. 
Beautiful trees ! Beautiful trees ! 
We their friends will be. 

Plant well the seeds that they fail not, 

God will keep watch while we sleep; 
Soon in their freshness they'll bring us 

Joy that all freely may reap: 
lyet us plant trees by the wayside, 

Plant them, with love, everywhere; 
Ours is the pleasure to give them. 

That others their blessings may share. 
Beautiful trees ! Beautiful trees ! 
We their friends will be. 



The Proudest Ships. 

(From the opera, " The Lightkeeper's Daughter.") 

The proudest ships that sail the sea. 

The rarest gems from foreign shore, 
With wealth of gold, were naught to me, 

Could I behold her smile no more. 
To me, she's sunshine, warm and bright. 

That gleams life's gloomy shadows through, 
My own, my darling heart's delight. 

My little Mattie, loved and true. 



No Mother's Love, 185 

Her pure white cheek with color glows, 

When tender words she whispers low, 
And then, 'tis like a damask rose 

That rests upon a bed of snow. 
The world has faces deemed as fair, 

And loving hearts from guile as free. 
Still is she far beyond compare. 

The sweetest flower on earth, to me. 



No Mother's Love. 

(From the opera, " The I^ightkeeper's Daughter.") 

I never knew a mother's love, 

A tender mother's gentle care; 
Yet oft I watch the stars above 

Because I know her home is there: 
And could I see her angel face, 

A pleasure pure and sweet 'twould be, 
And fair would seem earth's darkest place, 

If there her form I could but see. 

Ah, those that have a mother dear, 

Should spare the word that brings a sigh, 
Nor let neglect bring forth a tear, 

To dim the mild and loving eye. 
The friends of youth, tho' warm and true, 

Will soon forget the early tie, 
B'en th' olden friendship cares subdue, 

But mother's love can never die. 



Adjust Yourself. 

(From the opera, " The Ivightkeeper's Daughter.") 

Adjust yourself and spare the wrinkles, 

Keep the lustre of your eye ; 
Behold each star, how gay it twinkles, 

Tho' the darkest cloud be nigh. 
Adjust yourself to things and places. 

To circumstances, times and faces. 
Life is life, in every station. 

Poverty, an aggravation. 
Riches, mere accumulation. 

Social status, but a name. 
Riches, mere accumulation, 

Trouble comes to all the same. 

Adjust yourself, and growl to-morrow, 

Keep the smile upon your lip ; 
One-half the ills of life we borrow. 

Brace yourself, and mind your grip. 
Adjust yourself to tide and weather. 

The gale is stronger than the feather, 
Foolish he, that fights his master, 

Wisdom oft defeats disaster, 
Care will kill, than colic, faster, 

Surly glances seldom pay. 
Care will kill, than colic, faster, 

Pleasant looks oft win the day. 
(i86) 



The Deserter. 

(From the opera, " The I^ightkeeper's Daughter.") 

Oh ! the life of a sailor is jolly and free, 
And there's many a sight to be seen on the sea, 
Yet it's hardly the sort of a billet for me; 
For with bacon my stomach could never agree, 
Nor with biscuit, molasses, nor government tea. 
Nor with swigging salt broth with a single split 

pea. 
So I left the old * * Creeper, ' ' determined to be 
A full crew of my own, or be scorched with a " D. " 

Oh ! I love foreign waters and towns to explore, 
Or to lean on a gun with a twenty- inch bore, 
Or to tell pretty maids of the dread battle's 

roar, 
How we piled up the limbs, and swabbed up the 

gore. 
But I never took kindly to pulling an oar. 
Nor admired the wide-bottomed pants that we 

wore. 
Nor the mufl&n-shaped hats, still I wisely for- 
bore 
From indulging in comments, but paddled ashore. 
(187) 



Poor Ting Loo. 

(From the opera, "The Ughtkeeper's Daughter,") 

In an Oriental city, 

Where the tea-plant blooms the while, 

Strayed a maiden and her lover, brave Ting 
Loo, 
Her young heart was filled with pity, 
For Ting Loo, with ghastly smile. 

Was about to say a long and sad adieu. 

He would sail across the ocean, 
And upon a far-off shore, 

Make a fortune, then return and wed his bride; 
It was no erratic notion, 
Oft had others gone before, 

And his dark eyes flashed with love and manly 
pride. 

But another had his eyes on 
This poor, unhappy pair, 

'Twas her daddy, a most wicked mandarin, 
He owned tons of fragrant Hyson 
And Oolong and brands most rare. 

But, unlike his tea, this parent was not green. 
(i88) 



Poor Ting Loo. 189 

He whipped out a long toad-sticker, 
Gave a yell, and made a spring, 

Full intending that Ting I^oo should breathe 
no more, 
Eut the young man being quicker, 
Like a swallow on the wing. 

Flew, and let the aged pagan have the floor. 

He took refuge in the water. 
And our good ship passing by. 

Soon we fished him out and rigged him up in 
blue ; 
And the old man and his daughter 
Watched us go with wistful eye, 
And to Yankee-land we sailed with poor Ting 
Loo. 



^1/ 



The Maid from Londonderry. 

(From the opera, " The Ughtkeeper's Daughter.") 

Och, I'm a maid from I^ondonderry, 
Sure that's the place the folks are merry, 
Wid a twiddle de dee, an' a twiddle de da. 
Sure that is the spot where the folks are gay. 
The ould piper he plays on her Majesty's green, 
First a song for the shamrock, then one for the 
queen, 
An' if ever ye happen to go that way, 
Wid a twiddle de dee, an' a twiddle de da. 
Ye '11 find that the folks there are mighty gay. 

Och, I'm a maid from I^ondonderry, 
Sure it's the place the folks are merry, 

Wid a twiddle de dee, an' a twiddle de da, 
Bad luck to the time w^hen I came away. 
Than ould Ireland no fairer land ever was 

seen, 
Wid her fields an' her hills an' her valleys so 
green; 
An' there's little more now that I mane to 

say, 
Wid a twiddle de dee, an' a twiddle de da. 
An' that's that we'll thravel jist on our way, 
Wid a twiddle de dee, an' a twiddle de da. 
(190) 



Mermaids' Chorus. 

(From the opera, " The I^ightkeeper's Daughter.") 

Oh, come to our home in the beautiful deep, 
Where vines of bright green o'er the red coral 

creep, 
Fair mortal, come join us, and learn to forget 
The cold world that gives thee but pain and 

regret. 
Come, come to our grotto and share the sweet 

spell, 
Come, rest on our couches of moss-covered 

shell ! 
Oh, come to our home in the beautiful deep, 
And gently the waters shall rock thee to sleep. 

Oh, come to our home in the far away sea, 
Where pleasures ne'er dreamed of are waiting 

for thee ! 
Why heed not when fond voices call thee away ? 
Why linger when sorrow alone bids thee stay ? 
Then listen, fair maid, to our mystical vow: 
A crown of bright gems shall encircle thy 

brow! 
Come, come! and with sceptre, our queen thou 

shalt be; 
Oh, come to our home in the beautiful sea. 
(191) 



The Lawyer^s Song. 

(From the opera, " The Lightkeeper's Daughter.") 

Now this is a very singular case, 

And its magnitude I feel; 
For I conquer a rogue both tricky and base, 

By a turn of fortune's wheel. 
But, really, none but a lawyer can know 

How the shifting straws incline, 
As the tenth point oft wins the case for the foe, 

Though possession gives us nine. 

This merchant and maid will surely agree, 

That I've served them well and true; 
For there's few in the law that could useful be 

On so small a revenue. 
Ah ! the law is a wonderful, queer sort of thing, 

And its sword is sharp and bright. 
And a man to the breeze can with safety fling 

All his fear, if his cause be right. 

But exceptions, tho' rare, I am told do occur, 
'Tis the fault of our modern school; 

And the record must have an occasional blur, 
In proof of the golden rule. 



(192) 



Why, Why, O Sea? 

(From the opera, " The Lightkeeper's Daughter.") 

Why, why, O sea, do the weary at heart 

Their burden of care to thy bosom confide? 
Why in our bliss do we fondly impart 

All, all our joy to the cold, gleaming tide? 
Sun, moon, nor stars kiss thy bosom in vain, 

For gladly they give back each ray in glee, 
Tho' naught to me hast thou given but pain, 

Or poor, foolish dreams, yet I love thee, O sea ! 

Why, why, O heart, doth it lull thee to hear 

The song that forever the breakers have sung ; 
Ah, why, when each wave brings a message of 
fear 

And the waters are brine with the tears they 
have wrung ? 
Still, still the same do thy beauties beguile, 

And still from thy anger the bravest would flee, 
Yet on thy coldness and dangers I smile, 

For with all thy false wooing, I love thee, O sea ! 



13 (193) 



Whatever My Fate. 

(From the opera, " The lyightkeeper's Daughter.") 

Whate'er my fate may be, 

One thought will help me bear it, 
'Tis that I'm fondly loved by thee, 

That thou would' st gladly share it. 
And should I perish, sad and lonely, 

One thought would make me sigh, 
'Twould be the fond wish only. 

That we could say "good-bye." 

Ah ! why this sad regret. 

When all life's scenes are fleeting? 
When faith and hope to me as yet 

Have proved but vain and cheating. 
Still naught shall make me faint nor falter, 

No tear shall dim my eye, 
No power can make me alter, 

Good-bye, my own, good-bye! 



(194) 



Only a Word at Parting. 

I would not ask why 3^ou leave me, 

My fate too well I know; 
I only ask you to give me 

One word before you go. 
Only a word at parting, 

Only a last good-bye, 
Only a word to spare you 

Many a weary sigh. 
Go and forget that e'er we met; 

Go, like a bird, be free, 
I^ight-hearted, gay, banish regret, 

Give not a thought for me. 

The words that oft you have spoken 

Let faithless love unsay ; 
I only ask for one token. 

Before you go away. 
Only a word at parting, 

Only a last good-bye. 
Only a word to brighten 

Many a gloomy sky. 
Summer may bring its birds to sing; 

Sweet may their gay songs flow ; 
Yet must they soon be on the wing, 

Pleasures but come to go. 
(195) 



196 Ballads of the Occide7it. 

Sweet buds that bloom fragrant to-day, 
Soon like a dream wither away. 

Only a word at parting, 
Then let the false love die ; 

Tho' you may coldly leave me, 
Give me a last good-bye. 



The Coast Guard. 

(From the opera, " The Ivightkeeper's Daughter.") 

When the tempest blows, 

And the surf runs high, 
When it hails or snows, 

From a wild, weird sky; 
'Tis then that we watch 

Through the long, dark night, 
For the minute gun, 

Or the signal light 
Of a vessel in distress. 

When the awful cries 

Of despair are heard, 
When each foam-flake flies 

Like a frightened bird. 
Then quickly all 

To the life-boat spring, 
Or the doubtful line 

From the mortar fling 
To the vessel in distress. 



Cloud Forms. 

I sat alone on a summer day 

And watched the clouds on high, 
As soft, and fleecy and white they lay 

Like mountains in the sky ; 
And as I gazed, in a sort of dream, 

And thought of years to be, 
I saw a cot 'mid a rosy gleam 

That lit the cloudland lea : 
The picture grew, and I saw a face 

As fresh, as sweet as May, 
Then shadows came and I lost its trace, 

And the vision passed away. 

That summer day has long passed away, 

The autumn chill is here ; 
The school bell rings and the children gay 

Heed not the dead leaves sere; 
And near a cot stands a maiden fair 

With face as sweet as May, 
And as I gaze on her beauty rare 

I think of a summer day — 
A day when I watched the clouds on high 

And dreamed of years to be; 
But cold and heedless she passes by, 

And her form no more I see. 
(197) 



198 Ballads of the Occident. 

I know not why I should give a sigh 

For one sweet passing face, 
I only know that howe'er I try 

My heart still gives it place; 
I only know that the world to me 

Is barren, lone and cold. 
That life is drear and the things I see 

Seem dim, and worn and old: 
Yet still I long and watch and wait, 

And shall until I die, 
I wait to meet, though 'tis e'er so late, 

My vision of the sky. 




Love's but a Dream. 

Love's but a dream, a happy dream, 

Whose pleasure brings but pain, 
Love gives the heart of hope a gleam 

To prove that hope is vain ; 
Yet love is life, it lights the way 

Though black the stormy sky ; 
'Tis love that bids the spirit stay 

That fain would homeward fly. 

Love's but a dream, yet where' s the heart 

That, dreaming, would awake? 
Dream on, for when love's dreams depart 

Too oft the heart must break. 
The path we tread, yet other feet. 

Though weary, must pursue ; 
And pilgrim lips will e'er repeat 

What love's sweet dream can do. 

Then give me love, oh, let me love, 
Though pain it brings or care ; 

If love's a dream, oh, let me move 
Some breast that dream to share ! 



(199) 



Fire Phantoms. 

Now the coals are brightly glowing 

In the dear old-fashioned grate, 
Cheerful rays about me throwing, 

And the hour is growing late ; 
Yet alone I sit and ponder 

Heedless of the stormy blast, 
Till in fancy back I wander 

'Mid the scenes that long have past. 

One by one forgotten pleasures 

To my dreamy gaze appear, 
'Till a form my mem'ry treasures 

To my side seems drawing near: 
'Tis a maiden proud and queenly. 

But as false as she is fair, 
And her face that beams serenely 

Lured me almost to despair. 

Now the embers fast are dying, 

And the light is growing less, 
While the gale without is sighing 

Like a spirit in distress. 
Oh, how oft I've read in flashes 

From the glow a fairer fate, 
Yet my hopes have turned to ashes 

Like the embers in the grate. 
(200) 



The Rival Swains. 

Tom and I were at the party, 

Tho* we only came by chance, 
But our welcome being hearty. 

Both enjoyed the merry dance. 
But ere long we each discovered 

That a damsel sweet and fair, 
Near whose home we both oft hovered. 

Like ourselves had happen' d there. 

Tom and I were all attention 

To the slightest word she said. 
And we both took care to mention 

That the time had quickly fied, 
For each hoped to have the pleasure 

Of escorting Lizzie home, 
And my rapture knew no measure, 

When the time to go had come. 

All our thoughts were then of marriage, 

As we both stood mutely there, 
Tom with stylish horse and carriage, 

I with only Shanks' old mare, 
When to break the spell I faltered— 

"Lizzie, will you walk or ride?" 
Then I saw that things had altered, 

And that Tom had won a bride. 

(201) 



202 Ballads of the Occident, 

Oh, 'tis sweet to love a maiden, 

Wlien she loves you for yourself, 
But with sorrow you'll be laden, 

If she only loves your pelf. 
Still I'm single, rather lonely, 

And would like a bonny bride, 
So, now girls, I'll ask this only, 

"Who would rather walk than ride?' 



Pretty Holly Berries. 

Pretty holly berries. 

Oh, how bright you glow, 
'Mid the green leaves nestling, 

Peeping through the snow; 
Pretty holly berries. 

Though the boughs are bare. 
You alone, to cheer us, 

Still your crimson wear. 

Pretty holly berries. 

If we could but know 
Why you love the winter, 

Why you love the snow; 
If we could but guess it. 

If we on it fell. 
Pretty holly berries, 

You would never tell. 



God Bless Our Land. 

Father, to Thee, 
God of the free. 
Trusting Thy mercy, 
Thy children come; 
Guide us aright, 
Shield by Thy might. 
Safe from all danger. 
Sweet freedom's home. 
Still may we welcome 
Man oppressed, 
Here may the weary 
Find their rest; 
Loyal to country 
Firm let us stand, 
Ever united, 
God bless our land. 

May love and peace, 
That will not cease, 
Bind us together 
From strand to strand; 
On shore or sea 
Our song shall be, 
God and our loved ones, 
Home and our land. 
(203) 



204 Ballads of the Occident 

God, our Creator, 
Freedom's Friend, 
From ev'ry danger 
Us defend ; 
May we still prosper 
Led by Thy hand; 
Bless all our leaders, 
God bless our land. 



The Stars and Stripes Forever. 

One flag alone shall wave above us, 

'Tis the emblem of the free, 
And all the world shall pay it homage. 

Though it floats o'er land or sea. 
Dear flag, with all our hearts we love thee. 

But thy foes we still defy ! 
Thou alone shall be the banner 

That our hands will raise on high. 

One flag, one starry constellation 

In its ample field of blue ; 
One flag, whose folds shall ever bind us 

Firm together, keep us true ; 
In peace or war we will defend thee, 

Still our emblem thou shall be ; 
One flag alone shall wave above us, 

'Tis the banner of the free. 



Donald Gray. 

Poor Donald Gray, once happy and gay ; 
My heart it said yes, but my lips they said nay ! 
Years on their journey are fleeting, 
Fond hearts that we loved have ceased beating, 
Still I'm silently, vainly entreating 
For one word from my dear Donald Gray. 

Oh, could I recall what was spoken. 
And recline on your bosom to-day, 
This spirit, now weary and broken. 
Forever would willingly say. 
Ah, yes, Donald Gray, 
From my soul, Donald Gray ! 

Poor, foolish me, once joyous and free. 
Mistaken for life in a moment of glee ! 
Oft when the day-beams are dying, 
When sadly the wild birds are crying. 
And the billows are mournfully sighing, 
All alone do I watch by the sea. 

Oh, why is love's faith unavailing, 
Do I hope for what never can be ? 

Of all the proud ships that are sailing 
Not one brings a message to me; 
Yet all I can do 
Is to wait — wait — and see. 
(205) 



The Old Organ Blower. 

I've pumped the bellows here for years, 
I've heard devotion's hopes and fears; 
I've watched the children in their bloom, 
I've seen the bride, the happy groom; 
And one by one I've seen them go; 
I've heard the heartfelt sobs of woe; 
The pastor, people, all I've seen 
While pumping here behind the screen, 
For though all things I plainly see 
There's few indeed that gaze on me; 
I pump, pump, pump, 
And blow, blow, blow: 
High in the organ loft I stand 
And work the bar with trembling hand, 
And blow, blow, blow ! 

When first I came in years gone by, 
With raven locks and flashing eye, 
The organ seemed to louder swell, 
And softer, sweeter tales to tell ; 
But now my locks are silver gray, 
The organ seems to sadly say. 
The time grows near when I must go, 
When I no longer here may blow. 
(206) 



The Anchor Watch. 207 

The stained glass windows still subdue 
The sunbeams warm that glimmer through; 
The voices blend in solemn praise 
As in the olden bygone days ; 
But those I loved no more appear, 
No more they fill my heart with cheer ; 
Yet while I've strength on earth below, 
Still in the organ loft I'll blow. 



The Anchor Watch. 

The gale is driving the foamy waves 

In their rush to the rock- bound shore, 
The good ship's crew ev'ry danger braves 

And laughs at the breakers' roar ; 
For a faithful watch at the bow is set, 

The anchor and chain are strong, 
And though cold, and oft with the sea spray wet, 

He sings of his love a song. 

The bright sun gleams on the dancing sea, 

The morning is warm and fair; 
And a maiden looks out from a cot in glee 

With never a thought of care ; 
But a spar and a rudder have come ashore, 

And a story they mutely tell, 
Of a sailor who'll hie to his love no more, 

Of a maid, and her last farewell. 



Vm Getting Too Big to Kiss. 

The friends of my childhood with pleasure I greet, 

Their faces I ever hold dear, 
In palace or cottage, on meadow or street, 

Wherever they chance to appear. 
Then do not misjudge me, and deem me not cold, 

Nor call me a queer, haughty miss, 
Oh, no one can budge me, so do not be bold, 

I'm getting too — too big to kiss. 

*Tis hardly a year since the guests of the house, 

On leaving, would kiss me adieu, 
The parson, the deacon, old Schnider Von Krouse, 

Ned Blanc, and the young squire, too. 
They called me a treasure, a sweet, roguish maid ; 

Now nonsense like that is amiss, 
Though once 'twas a pleasure, I'm really afraid 

That somebody's too big to kiss. 

Now if you should happen by moonlight to walk. 

With some one you know very well. 
Remember 'tis harmless to laugh and to talk, 

Or sweet little stories to tell. 
But oh, have a care, girls, and heed me, I pray, 

For what I would counsel is this — 
Refuse, though his hair curls, and promptly this 
say: 

I'm getting, sir, too big to kiss. 
(208) 



Because I Love You. 209 

Oh, no, no, no, no, sir! Allow me to pass; 

Oh, no, sir, 'tis more than I dare: 
That game's out of fashion (I'm sorry, alas!) 

You needn't look cross as a bear. 
Yet still I've an ember of pity right here, 

I'll throw you just one kiss like this. 
But, sir, you'll remember, now don't come so 
near — 

That really I'm too big to kiss. 



Because I Love You. 

'Tis but a rose, a faded spray, 

That withered lies before me; 
And mem'ries of a bygone day 

Are sadly stealing o'er me. 
Tho' false you've been, I keep it still, 

But, oh, not to reprove you ; 
Its leaves I guard, and ever will, 

Dear one, because I love you. 

'Tis but a song, a sweet refrain, 

That once you loved to sing me ; 
Yet rose and song are fraught with pain, 

And only sorrow bring me. 
Tho' lost to me, tho' far away, 

My heart can ne'er reprove you, 
The song I sing, I keep the spray, 

Dear one, because I love you ! 
14 



Baby Bye. 

Baby bye, hush-a-bye, 

Close your pretty, sleepy eyes; 
Baby bye, sweetly lie. 

Angels watch you from the skies ; 
Soft is now your downy pillow, 

Free your tiny heart from care : 
And so may it be 
When life's mystic sea 

Baby's drifting bark shall bear. 

Baby bye, hush-a-bye, 

Could you tell your dreams to me, 
Baby bye, then would I 

Know the wonders that you see : 
Go to sleep, my precious darling. 

Gathers fast the twilight gray ; 
Go to sleep and rest 
In your peaceful nest — 

Rest, my baby, while you may ! 



(210; 



Columbia, My Country.^ 

Columbia, my Country ! 

My song is of thee, 
Th}^ honor and glory 

Mine ever shall be; 
From hillside, from valley, 

O'er mountain and plain. 
Shall echo forever, 

Sweet freedom's refrain. 

Columbia, my Country, 
Thou beautiful land ! 
The world in thy light shall be free! 
May God keep me steadfast. 
In heart and in hand, 
Still faithful, my Country, to thee! 

Columbia, my Country I 

My heart thrills with love; 
To thee am I loyal, 

God hears me above; 
Thy foes are my foemen, 

To thee would I give 
B'en life, were it needed. 

That freedom might live. 

*The copyright was transferred to the United States Government 
in 1893, giving all persons the right to publish the anthem. 

(211) 



212 Ballads of the Occident. 

Columbia, my Country! 

Earth's fairest domain, 
I honor thy heroes 

Who for thee were slain ; 
Thy flag still the emblem 

Of freedom shall be, 
Columbia, I love thee. 

Sweet home of the free. 



The American's Farewell. 

Farewell, farewell, my own dear land, 

This heart will ne'er deceive thee, 
And as I watch thy fading strand 

I sigh because I leave thee; 
The home I prize, the tearful eyes. 

The ties I leave behind me, 
Though years I roam 'neath foreign skies, 

To thee in love shall bind me. 

Farewell, farewell, each faithful heart, 

What joy whene'er I met thee; 
And, oh, what pain it is to part, 

Yet I shall ne'er forget thee! 
America, how sweet thy name ; 

Still true thou'lt ever find me; 
O land aglow with freedom's flame, 

To thee my love shall bind me. 



Can Love Forget? 

Oh, mother, do not ask me why 

My cheek has lost its bloom, 
Nor why the brightness of my eye 

Is shadowed o'er with gloom: 
The love I love has left for me 

But sighs and vain regret, 
And this my song shall ever be — 

Alas, can love forget ? 

The leaves that fall and yellow grow 

Beneath the summer sky, 
But mutely tell a tale of woe 

As zephyrs waft them by ; 
No, mother, do not ask, I pray, 

Why oft my eyes are wet; 
For I alone would sing to-day 

My song — can love forget? 

I'll gather me a fair bouquet 

Of pansies wet with dew, 
And they to my false love shall say, 

That I at least am true ; 
Oh, love, 'twere better far for me 

That we had never met, 
Since we must ever parted be — 

And yet can love forget? 
(213) 



The Old Ship. 

'Tis years ago, my mates, that we, 

A happy, hardy crew. 
Left port one summer day for sea. 

When that old ship was new. 
Her spars were light and taper, too, 

Her sails were white as snow ; 
Then o'er the foam like a gull she flew, 

Yet that was long ago. 

On that old ship hard fights were fought 

By sailors brave and true, 
Whose sweethearts lived in ev'ry port 

From Bangor to Peru; 
But oft Jack tars come back no more 

To sweetheart or to bride, 
For some find homes on a far off shore, 

And some beneath the tide. 

The grass on yonder shore is green, 

The tide drifts gently by. 
But in the air there's something keen 

That dims your weather eye; 
For mem'ry spreads each snowy sail. 

And crowds again the shore. 
Where fair ones cheered, though their cheeks 
grew pale. 

All in the da3's of yore. 

(214) 



The Ivy- Clad Ruin, 215 

Yes, mates, we tell you true, 
As many a lass and lad could tell 
Who on her decks have said farewell 
When that old ship was new. 



The Ivy-Clad Ruin. 

'Tis the old, old church that for years I've known, 
And with ivy green are its walls o'ergrown; 
All its ancient splendor has passed away, 
And there's naught remaining but grim decay; 
The pale moonbeams glimmer the windows 

through, 
And the roofless floor is all damp with dew; 
Both the pious priest and his flock are gone. 
And the gravestones watch o'er their dead alone. 

Oh, how oft I've passed thro' the spacious aisle 
And have met the throng with a friendly smile ; 
In the bygone days when I saw them kneel. 
When I felt the thrill of the organ's peal; 
But the forms I knew enter here no more, 
And no footsteps fall on the mouldy floor; 
There's but one thing left that with life I've 

seen — 
'Tis the faithful vine of the ivy green. 



Song of the Chase. 

Over the meadows we gayly sweep, 
Over the ditches and rails we leap; 
Huntsmen so gallant and ladies fair, 
Proudly the panting chargers bear. 

Crack ! crack ! on we go ; 

Loud, long the bugle blow ! 

Now in the valley, now out again, 
Now 'mid the reapers of golden grain; 
Eyes flashing brightly, cheeks aglow, 
Merrily on to the chase we go. 

Crack ! crack ! ply the lash ; 

On, on, still on we dash ! 

Swiftly before us the wild stag flies. 
Bounding away from the hounds' fierce cries; 
Up from the stubble the pheasant springs, 
Shaking the dew from his gorgeous wings. 

Crack ! crack ! speed away ; 

Quick! quick! the stag's at bay! 

Hark to the sound that we love so well. 

Tally ho! Tally ho! 
Hark to the echoes from cliff and dell, 

Tally ho! Tally ho! 

(216) 



Em'ly's Wedding. 

We had played for years together, 

She had been my little bride, 
And in childish love had promised 

Ne'er in life to leave my side; 
But the seasons came and vanished, 

And my Em'ly older grew, 
And my heart it held a secret 

That my playmate never knew. 

One day as friends we parted, 

With a kiss we said "good bye;" 
I was off to seek my fortune, 

Yet I never told her why : 
But the story is an old one. 

It has oft been told before ; 
And while hearts must go unmated 

'Twill be told forevermore. 

Once again, unseen, I saw her 

Leaning on another's arm. 
And the organ's strain of triumph 

Seemed to bear a wondrous charm; 
But to me, who stood a stranger. 

Each note seemed to bid me hide, 
Lest my face should mar the pleasure 

Of the fair and happy bride. 
(217) 



2i8 Ballads of the Occident, 

Sweetheart Km'ly, happy, smiling, 

May her life from care be free. 
May she ever know the pleasure 

That for me can never be; 
Sweetheart Km'ly, how I loved her, 

She was light and life to me, 
And I'll ever hide the sorrow 

That her true eyes must not see. 



The Afterglow. 

The sun will shine no more to-day. 

The gloaming fades, and night is near; 
The clouds low down are ashen gray. 

Cold, bleak and gray; the night is here: 
But high above the evening star, 

Like daylight loth to go, 
With rosy blush, so faint, so far, 

Still gleams the afterglow. 

Ah, me ! it seems but yesterday, 

The love-lit bliss of olden years; 
Ah, yes! the life dream melts away. 

Fades out 'mid smiles, oft dimmed by tears: 
Yet in each heart there lingers still 

Some joy it used to know. 
Which mem'ry brings with happy thrill 

To be our afterglow. 



Unmated. 

There is a life — I know not where — 

There is a true heart beating ; 
A breast my ev'ry sigh to share, 

Fond lips each prayer repeating ; 

We may not meet this side the grave, 
And years o'er one the grass may wave; 
But when, in realms of endless day, 

Are gone the bonds that bind me, 
When earth's dark clouds have passed away, 

Dear one, I then shall find thee. 

'Mid pleasure's charm I sigh regret. 

Because thou canst not share it; 
Yet sorrow's gloom I'd soon forget, 

Couldst thou but help me bear it. 
The way is hard and friends are few, 
God only knows the false, the true. 
But when the clouds have passed away. 

When gone the chains that bind me, 
I know, in realms of endless day, 

My own, I then shall find thee. 



(219) 



Out on the Hills. 

Out on the hills in silence, 

Out 'neath the starry sky, 
Watching their flocks sat the shepherds, 

Watching and wondering why, 
Wondering why the sweet music 

Came from the blue above; 
Wond'ring at angel legions 

Singing a song of love. 

Oh, 'twas a song of victory, 

A song of redemption too; 
It told that a Mighty Prince was born, 

My soul, 'twas a song for j^ou ! 

Out from the depths above them 

Shone a refulgent light. 
Piercing the night's sombre shadows, 

Greeting the shepherds' glad sight; 
Hark! 'tis the voice of an angel, 

Peace and goodwill to men. 
Heavenward the hosts are soaring. 

Singing their song again. 

Glory to God the Father, 

Glory to Christ, His Son, 
Glory and praise to the Spirit, 

Glorious Trio in One; 
(220) 



Guard the Flag. 221 

Praise to the merciful Jesus, 

Honor Him ev'ry tongue, 
Sing to His lasting glory, 

Sing as the angels sung. 



Guard the Flag.* 

Guard the flag, guard the flag of our native land, 

Guard the flag of liberty ; 
Guard well the flag with heart and hand, 

God save the banner of the free ! 
Sous of the nation, hold it aloft. 

Bravely its foes defy ; 
Our beautiful flag, the hope of the world, 

Ever shall wave on high ! 

Guard the flag, guard the flag that our fathers 
bore. 

Let its pride our glory be ; 
Oh, let it wave o'er sea and shore. 

The starry emblem of the free ! 
Though 'neath it marching onward to war, 

Though 'neath its folds in peace, 
Our motto shall be to still guard the flag. 

Never our vigil cease. 

♦"Guard the Flag]" is sung in Public Schools throughout the 
United States, and by Americans upon all patriotic occasions. It is 
now acknowledged to be one of our National Songs. 



Blacksmith Joe. 

In the town of Winkumtural, 

Many long, long 5-ears ago, 
Lived a man who shod the horses, 

Whom the folks called Blacksmith Joe. 
Ah, 'tis a story that is full of woe; 
Poor Joe ! 
Oh, his face was always beaming 

In the merry, ruddy forge's glow. 
Till a maiden brought a donkey 

To be shod by Blacksmith Joe. 

Now this maiden was a beauty. 

Which, of course, right well she knew, 
And poor Joseph gazed with rapture 

On her eyes of tender blue. 

Ah, rest assured that ev'ry word is true, 
Too true ! 
Said the blushing maiden sweetly, 

' 'Sir, I've man}^ many miles to go. 
Will you kindly shoe my donkey?" 

*'That will I," quoth Blacksmith Joe. 

Soon his brown hand on the bellows 
Made the bright sparks upward fly. 

While each silent watched the embers. 
With a far off, wistful eye. 

Ah, and they uttered such a doleful sigh- 

Oh, my ! 

(222) 



Blacksmith Joe. 233 

All at once the wicked donkey 

With his naughty little foot let go, 

And the maiden fell, unconscious, 
In the arms of Blacksmith Joe. 

'Neath the elms they laid the maiden, 

Where the pansies love to grow. 
And the forge was soon deserted 

By the broken-hearted Joe. 

Ah, and at last his trouble laid him low; 
Poor Joe ! 
When the pale young moon is shining, 

If you happen by the forge to go, 
You will see a ghostly donkey, 

And the maiden's form with Joe. 

Cling! clang! cling! clang! 
Merrily rang his anvil, 

Many's the year ago; 
Cling! clang! cling! clang! 
Till the maid with her donkey 

Ended the peace of Joe. 



Watching the Tide Drift By. 

We stood by the stream, Nanette and I ; 

Never a fear had we ; 
The silvery moon shone in the sky 

Glinting the dewy lea. 
**Love that is true dies never" — 

This was her sweet reply, 
When first we stood by the river 

Watching the tide drift by. 

We stood by the stream, Nanette and I; 

Never a word said we ; 
The silvery moon shone in the sky 

Glinting the dewy lea. 
Oh, that fond hearts should sever, 

Oh, that fair hopes should die ! 
Sadly we stood by the river 

Watching the tide drift by. 

We stood by the stream, Nanette and I; 

Many's the day since then, 
And many's the lip that said good bye, 

Never to meet again: 
E'en though it be forever, 

Yet still our hearts reply. 
As when we stood by the river 

Watching the tide drift by. 
(224) 



The Proud Flag of Freedom. 

The proud flag of freedom, unsullied, behold 

How cluster about it the glories of years, 
As skyward and westward, 'mid purple and gold, 
In the land of the sunset, its home, it appears. 
America's token of faith never broken, 

Sweet signal that flutters o'er mountain and 
sea; 
That mutely repeats what our fathers have 
spoken, 
That tells the oppressed they may come and be 
free! 

O proud flag of freedom, how swells with delight 

The breast of the wand'rer who meets thee afar ; 
What home-visions come with the gladdening 
sight, 

And how fond dwells his eye on each stripe 
and each star ! 
Thus be it forever, while oceans may sever, 

Or fate hold in exile, a man from our shore ! 
Tho' fairer the clime, an American never 

Forgets his own colors, but loves them the more. 

Thou proud flag of freedom, so lovely in peace, 

So awfully grand in the dread crash of war. 
Float on in thy beauty till nations shall cease, 
While there's room in the blue for another 
bright star : 
15 (225) 



226 Ballads of the Occident, 

From danger defending, still onward, ascending; 

The hope of mankind and the envy of none: 
"B Pluribus Unum," our motto transcending, 

Till earth's constellations are blended in one! 



Woman's Love. 

There is a balm for hearts grown weary. 

For burning brows that throb with pain. 
That cheers though all the world be dreary, 

And gives to life sweet hope again ; 
How brave the breast this boon possessing, 

Fair gift from angel realms above! 
How sad the soul that craves the blessing, 

Or had, but lost a woman's love! 

What scene hath charms, though stars are beam- 
ing, 

Though music sweet drifts on the air, 
Though ev'ry rose with dew is gleaming, 

Unless the form we love be there? 
Let fortune claim my rarest treasure, 

And fame far from my name remove, 
I'll say farewell to ev'ry pleasure, 

But spare, oh, spare me woman's love. 



The Nameless Valley. 

Long years ago, when you and I 

Beside the river wandered free, 
You told me that though hope should die 

Yet still your heart would faithful be. 
O love, those days have passed away, 

Fond hope hath faded long ago ; 
Here, all alone, I stand to-day 

And watch the silent river flow. 

The green hills keep their vigil still 

Upon the sleeping town below, 
And soft the moonlight glints the rill 

As in the nights of long ago; 
O love, the fault lies not with you. 

Nor is my weary heart to blame; 
But, lo, the watching hills are true, 

The faithful river flows the same ! 



The Harvest Home. 

The harvest has come and the vines hang low. 
The fruit on the branches sways to and fro ; 
The grain is all garnered, we've stacked the hay. 
And happy and light are our hearts to-day. 
(227) 



228 Ballads of the Occide7it. 

The harvest has come with its ample yield, 
And rich is each meadow and waving field; 
The earth is Thy garden, Lord, Thine alone, 
'Tis Thou who has blest what our hands have 
sown. 

Lord, deep in our hearts sow the seeds of love, 
Where sin may not wither, nor sorrow move, 
That when Thy bright angels as reapers come, 
We'll sing the glad song of our harvest home. 



Over the River. 

Though seeming dark the waters 

That broad and silent flow. 
Though dim the distant haven 

That only faith can show; 
Yet fear not, weary pilgrim, 

With Jesus at thy side, 
For angel hands will guide thee 

Across the mystic tide. 

If those we leave behind us 

The truth could only know. 
Then tears of joy, not sorrow. 

Would soothe us when we go; 
The farewell kiss at parting 

Would be a brief adieu. 
For just across the river 

Our hands will clasp anew. 



Easter Carol. 

Jesus lives! the vict'ry's won, 

Glory be to God on high ! 
Sing the praise of Christ, our Lord, 

While angel hosts reply. 
Sin and death by Him are conquered. 

All our fears are o'er; 
He who died for our redemption 

Lives forever more ! 
Alleluia! Alleluia! Praise be to God ! 

Victory ! the night is past, 

Brightly gleams the happy day; 
March in triumph, doubt no more, 

For Jesus leads the way ! 
Sing the song of exultation, 

Man from death is free ! 
Christ, at God's right hand in triumph, 

Reigns eternally ! 
Alleluia ! Alleluia ! Praise be to God ! 



(229) 



Not Here. 

Not here, if you please, 

Where ev'ry one sees 
Our acts with an eye microscopic; 

Where ears are agog, 

Like a tar's in a fog, 
To catch up a contraband topic. 
You will pardon my seeming distrust 

When the point of my hint becomes clear; 
Have your say to the end, if you must. 
But beware that you say it not here ! 

When only a lad, 

And caught by my dad 
In mischief, or wickedly larking; 

When laid on his knee 

From the whack I got free 
By simply that sentence remarking. 
'*0h, not here!" I would cry in alarm, 

While I wriggled and twisted with fear, 
Then in pity descended his arm 

At the timely suggestion, not here! 

When, later in life, 

I courted my wife. 
When dollars and quarters were stinted, 

Those words I would say 

And look the wrong way 
If ice cream or candy she hinted. 
(230) 



Christmas. 231' 

But a scholar so apt was that miss — 
As the sequel will make it appear — 

That whenever I begged for a kiss, 

She would giggle and answer, not here! 



Christmas. 



O happy, happy festal day, 

O long awaited dawn, 
With joy and love we welcome thee, 

O blessed Christmas morn. 

Let all the world its homage pay. 

Let Joyal voices sing, 
For on this day, in Bethlehem, 

Was born a Mighty King. 

O joyous morn of peace and love, 
Sweet day of promise bright. 

Shed forth in every shadowed life 
Thy warmth and wondrous light. 

Let ev'ry heart be thrilled with joy, 

Let care be cast away. 
For Christ is here to cheer and bless, 

And this is Christmas day ! 



Finger-Prints Upon the Pane. 

I had opened wide the shutters 

Of the long deserted room, 
And a flood of golden sunshine 

Chased away the dreary gloom ; 
'Twas while gazing round with tenderness 

Where baby last had lain, 
That I chanced to see the finger-prints 

Upon the window pane. 

Still the empty crib was standing 

In its old accustomed place, 
But from 'neath the little blankets 

Peeped no precious infant face. 
How I longed to clasp its angel form, 

One more sweet kiss obtain 
From the rosy lips that oft had pressed 

Against the window pane. 

Oh ! my heart seemed almost breaking 

As I gathered from the floor, 
Here a shoe and there a stocking 

That my little darling wore ; 
And I could not, though I loved the room, 

One moment more remain. 
Where those snowy hands had left their prints 

Upon the window pane. 
(232) 



Twilight on the Sea. 

Now twilight falls upon the sea, 

The wild birds homeward wing their way, 
The dew-drops gather on the lea, 

And shadows gloom the fading day. 
*'Ahoy! Ahoy!'* comes faint the cry, 

As nearer speeds the fisher's merry crew; 
"Ahoy! Ahoy!" the fond reply, 

From waiting, watching hearts so true. 
And the breakers crash. 
And the breakers roar, 
And the darkness veils 
The landscape o'er. 

Oh, happy twilight, calm and sweet. 

That bids the weary world take rest, 
The hour that parted loved ones meet 
And peaceful home is doubly blest I 
But hark ! "Ahoy !" how shrill the cry, 
Now o'er the foaming billows borne ! 
Good night to joy, to peace good bye; 
O wretched, waiting hearts forlorn. 
And the breakers crash. 
And the breakers roar, 
And the fated crew 
Returns no more. 
(233) 



The Broken Tryst. 

Far o'er the hills two pale stars beam, 

Shepherds their flocks are calling ; 
Out from the cots the lamp lights gleam, 

And night shades fast are falling. 
Lonely wait I trembling here, 
Beats my timid heart with fear; 
Wilt thou come, O love, my own? 

I will chide thee not, nor blame; 
Come, ere hope with day hath flown, 

Thou wilt find me still the same. 

Now must I sadly turn awa}^ ; 

Oh, that I had one token ! 
Dim grows the fleeting twilight gray, 

And love's sweet tryst is broken. 
Should we never meet again, 
Dreary would my life be then. 
Through long years that come and go, 

Though my days shall lonely be. 
Sweetest bliss 'twill be to know 

Once thy thoughts were all for me. 



(234) 



Only Dreaming. 

The wild birds are singing, 
The merry bells are ringing, 

All the world seems full of glee ! 
But my poor heart is aching. 
And my poor heart is breaking, 

For Jamie's proved false to me. 
E'en now to the wedding. 
While bitter tears I'm shedding, 

They enter the old church door 
Where, oft in my dreaming. 
With bright visions beaming, 

I have been the bride before. 

The bright sun is beaming, 
And merrily is streaming 

Golden rays upon the floor; 
Hark ! I hear a voice speaking, 
The stair with footsteps creaking ; 

Surely, someone is at my door! 
Oh, why am I sighing? 
'Tis Jamie's voice replying 

That he's called me o'er and o'er. 
My trouble's but seeming. 
The fact is I've been dreaming, 

As I've often dreamt before! 
(235) 



The New Year. 

If we could but count the roses 

That have blossomed through the year, 
Or remember all the mornings 

When the sky was bright and clear; 
We would bid the old year farewell 

With regretful tears and sighs, 
And but deem its many shadows 

Only blessings in disguise. 

In the year that lies before us, 

Like a vast and unknown sea, 
Lurk the reefs and bloom the islands 

That will make our destiny ; 
Bravely start upon the voyage, 

And, should e'er 3^ou need a chart, 
Then take up the old year's lessons 

That are written on your heart. 

On life's journey take the bright side, 

Ever try the light to find ; 
For to those who face the sunshine 

Kv'ry shadow falls behind. 
Trust the good and Mighty Ruler; 

Work and keep a conscience clear. 
Then you'll bless the old year's mem'ry, 

Greet with joy the new-born year. 
(236) 



stay Home To-night With the Old 
Folks. 

Stay home to-night with the old folks, 

Give them an evening's cheer, 
For worn are their hearts and wear>', 

Toiling for many a year; 
Sing them a song that is sweet and low, 
One that they sang long, long ago ! 
Though dim are eyes with watching, 

Though seamed are their brows, once fair, 
Though sad be their thoughts to-morrow, 

To-night let them know no care. 

Stay home to-night with the old folks, 

Let them be gay once more; 
Bring back rosy scenes that have perished, 

Days that forever are o'er; 
Sing them a song that is sweet and low. 
One that they sang long, long ago ! 
For love of the hands ever willing, 

The smiles that our childhood knew. 
For sake of the lips that have blessed us, 

To-night cheer their hearts so true. 



(237) 



After the Wedding. 

The bright stars were timidly peeping 

Thro' the rifts in the clouds that were sweeping 

O'er the world that lay quietly sleeping, 

When home from the wedding I came ; 
The wind thro' the tree-tops was sighing, 
And the screech-owl was dismally crying, 
While each bush I kept cautiously eying, 

And edging away from the same. 

That night the earth had a queer feeling, 
I am sure that the fences were reeling, 
And I caught myself frequently kneeling — 

Inspecting the state of the ground ; 
Fatigued, I determined on resting — 
First the warmth of a pocket-friend testing — 
Then myself of my new boots divesting, 

Dropped into a slumber most sound ! 

Soon out from the hedge there came crawling, 
A most terrible form that kept bawling: 
"Oh, somebody '11 get a good mauling. 

For stealing the bed of a ghost!" 
'Most dead at its feet I fell pleading, 
But the monster my prayer was unheeding, 
When I grabbed it — and 'woke with nose bleed- 
ing, 

And found I was hugging a post ! < 

(238) 



The Road by the River. 

The road by the river is lonely, 

The leaves from the branches are gone; 
I hear my sad sigh's echo only 

As the cold v^aters silent glide on : 
There's no smile, no voice to greet me, 

For my loved one's far away, 
Yet the joys we've known entreat me, 

And their mem'ries bid me stay. 

Then farewell, O river, I leave you, 

Though still drift my thoughts with your tide, 
And sweet is the message I give you 

For one who is far from my side ; 
Tell, oh, tell my love I'm lonely. 

That I'm waiting, watching here, 
That the world has one face only 

To my soul forever dear. 



(239) 



The Ribbon She Wore. 

I have left a girl behind me 
Who is sweeter than a rose, 
And her gentle heart I know is warm and true; 
And wherever fate may find me 
In my breast shall still repose, 
This dear little piece of faded ribbon blue. 

lyove from her eyes is beaming, 

She is pure and fair; 
And I'll keep this bit of ribbon 
Till we meet, because I know 

She wore it in her hair. 

When the stars above are beaming 
In the silent summer sky, 
Then in fancy I again am at her side; 
Still of her I'm fondly dreaming 
As the days glide slowly by, 
For she promised that she'd be my loving bride. 

I have left a girl behind me. 
And she's singing all the day 
Like the merry birds that cleave the sunny air; 
And one thing shall e'er remind me 
Of our love, and cheer my way, 
'Tis the ribbon that she twined among her hair. 
(240) 



Pretty Wild Roses. 

Pretty wild roses bring me, 

Gathered by the way ; 
In them love reposes, 
And their blush discloses 
What your heart proposes, 
Pretty, shell-pink roses 
Bring them fresh with morning dew, 

Gathered by the way. 
Timidly, down b}^ the hedges, 

Watching the trav'lers pass by, 
List'ning to true lovers' pledges. 

Hearing the wayfarer's sigh — 
Beautiful, fragrant roses, 

Blooming wild and free, 
Emblem of fond devotion. 

Gather them, love, for me: 
Pretty wild roses bring me. 

Pluck them by the way ; 
Let their sweet breath tell me 

What your lips would say. 

Pretty wild roses fading 

By the dusty way ; 
Sad the winds are sighing. 
Birds are southward flying, 
i6 (241) 



242 Pretty Wild Roses, 

No loved voice replying 
Is to cheer me trying, 
And the roses withered lie 

By the dusty way. 
Ivonely they droop by the hedges, 

Weary the travelers pass by; 
No more are heard love's fond pledges, 

Clouds gather dark in the sky — 
Yet will I love my roses 

Though they seared may be; 
Still will their petals yellow 

Treasures prove to me : 
Pretty wild roses ever, 

Though you fade away, 
For your leaves still tell me 

What my love would say. 




The Turning in the Lane. 

Oh, brother, if you're weary. 

If your feet are bruised and sore, 
Just think how oft have pilgrims 

Trod the same hard road before; 
And if your heart should falter, 

Still be brave, and try again, 
For perhaps you may to-morrow 

Reach the turning in the lane. 

Your sky may be o'erclouded. 

Chill and dark the gloomy day ; 
Yet, brother, still remember, 

Ev'ry storm must pass away: 
The friends of sunny summer 

Their old warmth may not retain, 
But all will gladly greet you 

At the turning of the lane. 



(243) 



Only a Tramp. 

*' 'Tis only a tramp," I heard them say, 
As the cold, still form in the moonlight lay; 
The shoeless feet all bruised and torn, 
The garments soiled and travel worn. 
The youthful face with its lines of care 
And the dark brown mass of matted hair, 
All told the tale in a quiet way, 
Of a homeless lad and a life astray. 

Once, in a mansion, far away, 

In the arms of a mother an infant lay ; 

And oft did the woman in holy bliss 

The rosy lips of her darling kiss: 

Then the child grew up in his strength and pride, 

Then wandered off from the matron's side — 

But, seen in the glare of the watchman's lamp, 

E'en his mother would say, *' 'tis only a tramp. ** 



(244) 



The Toll-Taker. 

(From the Operetta, " A Jolly Christmas ^e.") 

In a neat little cot by the wayside, 

Daddy Wicket, the toll-taker, lives, 
And each trav'ler who rides o'er the turnpike, 

A mite to the toll-taker gives; 
He holds out his hand very graceful, 

While a twinkle is seen in his eye, 
And he says a kind word to all comers, 

And he smiles as they swiftly glide by. 

When the sun o'er the hill-top is peeping, 

When all sweet is the flower-kissed air. 
When the day goes to rest in the gloaming, 

Still dear Daddy Wicket is there; 
He stands in the door of the toll-house. 

Or he sits on his three-legged chair. 
And his pride is to care for a stranger. 

Yet is he quite a stranger to care. 

Oh, then, who can forget Daddy Wicket, 

Or the wonderful shake of his head ? 
He who oft gives the homeless a shelter, 

Who oft hungry mortals has fed! 
Oh, may we, as through life we j ourney, 

Never meet with a less noble soul 
Than the friend and the joy of our childhood, 

Daddy Wicket, who gathers the toll. 
(245) 



Daddy Wicket. 

(From the Operetta, " A Jolly Christmas Kve.") 

My name's Henry Philip Magonigal Wicket, 

And you'll say that it's not very short; 
So my name being long, why, the children, to 
nick it. 

Call me old Daddy Wicket in sport. 
I gather great hatfuls of pennies and nickels 

From people that drive on the pike; 
I sigh when luck frowns, and I laugh when it 
tickles, 

And I do pretty much as I like. 

My name's Henry Philip Magonigal Wicket, 

'Twould be foolish the same to deny; 
And I *' save at the bung," but I '* waste at the 
spigot," 

Which is why such a poor man am I. 
I'd rather be poor than to be rich and stingy, 

I'd rather be good than be bad, 
And that's why I live in a hut small and dingy, 

Because I make sad people glad. 



(246) 



The Grocer's Song. 

(From the Operetta, " Holly Berries.") 
HK. 

I'm a grocer and keep at the corner, 

I'm a judge of a ham or a cheese, 
I can wait on a dozen together, 

And can answer them all with great ease. 
When the little boy comes with his story, 

For his bread and his ounce of green tea, 
When he says he's forgotten the money, 

Why, his motive I plainly can see. 

SHK. 
He's a grocer for all there is in it, 

He is posted on bushels and pecks. 
He can sell you potatoes and apples. 

And hide from your view their black specks; 
His mackerel never are rusty, 

For he scrapes all the brown rust away; 
Oh, the bus'ness has many a secret. 

But I think I'll not tell them to-day. 

HE. 
The McFaddens all thought they were poisoned, 

When for onions I sent them, instead, 
A string of rank garlic, which tasting, 
McFadden declared he was dead. 
(247) 



248 Ballads of the Occident, 

I will own that I' ve measured molasses 

By mistake in an oily tin can, 
But " to err," says the poet, '* is human,** 

And a grocer is only a man. 

BOTH. 

Yes, we know ev'ry trick of the business, 
Moldy codfish we make good as new; 

SHE. 
But we never put sand in the sugar, 

BOTH. 

And I'll prove it, my darling, by you! 

HK. 

We take pride in good weight and full measure, 
And our scales and our measures are true — 

BOTH. 

And I'll prove it, I'll prove it, my darling. 
Yes, I'll prove it, my darling, by you! 



He's a Man Among a Hundred. 

(From the Operetta, "Holly Berries.") 

He's a man among a hundred, 

He is careful, he is keen, 
He can sing a song or whistle, 

He's as good as I have seen; 
No one could be more obliging, 

And, what's better still than all, 
He found those holly berries 

That are hanging on the wall. 

He's a man among a hundred. 

Warm of heart, with head quite cool; 
One can see by what he's shown us 

That he's neither knave nor fool; 
One and all, I'm sure, we like him, 

Him our friend we'll always call, 
For he found those holly berries 

That are hanging on the wall. 

Maybe there's a stray dog-berry. 

Maybe some cranberries, too, 
B'en a lot of wee tea-berries. 

Bits of laurel not a few; 
Yet we take his good intentions. 

Though the lot he brought is small. 
For he found what holly berries 

There are hanging on the walL 
(249) 



A Father's Love. 

(From the Opera, " Flogeo.") 

A father's love though most revealed 

In moments bright and fair, 
Yet warmer glows when ' tis concealed 

Beneath a cloud of care; 
The weight of toil alone he bears, 

That ours may lighter be, 
And oft his heart a fetter wears, 

That ours may beat more free; 
Then let us greet him with a smile, 

Make smooth his path to-day; 
For ' tis but yet a little while 

When he must pass away. 

A father' s love though seldom sung, 

Is pure and dear to me; 
The name lisped by my childish tongue, 

Still loved and prized shall be. 
A mother's love like ivy clings 

And binds us all in one; 
But his, the oak that shelter flings, 

His glance, our summer sun. 
Then let us greet him with a smile, 

Make smooth his path to-day; 
For 'tis but yet a little while 

When he must pass away. 
(250) 



Serenade. 

(From the Opera, " Flogeo.") 

Lady, if thou art awake, 

To thy lover make reply; 
Come, Oh, come, for love's sweet sake, 

Nor my pleading heart deny. 
Lady fair, if thou dost sleep. 

Then may angels pure and bright 
Tender vigil o'er thee keep 

Through the silent hours of night. 

Lady mine, to thee I sing; 

Canst thou not one sweet word say ? 
Will my voice no answer bring. 

Must I sadly turn away ? 
Come, Oh, come, my loved one true, 

Let me ask thee not in vain. 
Or if dreaming then adieu, 

Till I see thy face again. 



(251) 



The Old Philosopher. 

(From the Opera, ' ' Flogeo.") 

E'en the best of roads are rocky and rough 

To the feet that tramp alone, 
And the richest man is needy enough 

Who can call no heart his own; 
Of the hundred hands that warmly we shake 

We are lucky if one there be 
That would grasp as tight for charity's sake, 

Did they know our poverty. 

'Tis a world of show, of hollow deceit, 

'Tis a world both pure and bright; 
'Tis a paradox, a riddle complete 

That but few can read aright; 
E'en the longest life must knuckle at last, 

And recline on its couch of clay; 
And a fool is he who has gold amassed 

For the wise to scatter gay. 



(252) 



A Widow of Forty-two. 

(From the Opera, '• Flogeo.") 

I'm only a widow of forty- two, 
But that is a secret for me, not you; 
There's many a maiden of twenty-three 
Who'd look like an owl if compared with me: 
If not young and blushing, I'm stout and fair, 
With not yet the sign of a silver hair — 
'Tis few that would marry if men but knew 
Just when a sweet widow is forty-two. 

'Tis true I'm a widow of forty -two. 
Yet still I've the power to coo and woo; 
I've proof that I know how the thing is done, 
For haven't I captured my number one? 
I'm careful indeed to preserve my looks, 
And faces of men I can read like books; 
Then why should I bother or make ado 
When I'm but a widow of forty -two? 



(253) 



Memorial Day. 

lyike stars that sink into the west, 
So one by one we seek our rest; 

The column's brave and steady tread, 
With banners streaming overhead, 

Will still keep step, as in the past. 
Until the rear-guard comes at last. 

Ah, yes, like stars we take our flight. 

And whisper, one by one, "Good-night;" 

Yet in the light of God's bright day. 
Triumphant, each again will say, 

' Hail, Comrade, here has life begun. 

The battle's fought^ the victory's won ! " 



(254) 



Jesus, Guard Us Through the Night. 

Jesus, guard us through the night, 

Grant us peace, subdue our fears; 
Watch us till the silv'ry light 

Of the coming day appears. 
Watch us though the sky be dark, 

Though Thy face we cannot see; 
To our cry, O Saviour, hark, 

Near to rescue ever be. 

Jesus, guard us while we sleep, 

While the world in slumber lies; 
In Thy fold we fain would keep, 

Watched by legions from the skies. 
Though our heads may lowly rest. 

Though on splendor's couch repose; 
Let our sleep with peace be blest, 

Save us, Jesus, from our foes. 



(255) 



The Minstrel. 

If you sing the songs I've sung you, 
If you whisper but the air, 

Then, believe me, in the spirit 

With my song, I'm with you there. 

I am with you — ever with you; 

At your side by night, by day ; 
In the crowded street at noontime, 

In the dark and lonesome way. 

For the songs I love to sing you 

Of my soul are but a part. 
And they float like burning incense 

From the censer of my heart. 



(256) 



